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copyRiGirr DEPosrr. 



4. 

THE POETS 



NINETEENTH CENTURY, 



SELECTED AND EDITED 



REV. EGBERT ARIS WILLMOTT. 

INCUMBENT OF BEAEWOOD. 



WITH ENGLISH AND AMERICAN ADDITIONS, 

AEKAXGED BY 

EVERT A. pUYCKINCK, 

EDITOE OF TirE CYCLOPEDIA OF AMEEICAN LITEEATUEE. 



ILLUSTRATED WITH ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-TWO ENGRAVINGS. 
I>KAWN BY EMINENT ARTISTS. 



^^C, ^/ 



NEW YORK: 

HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISH ^R S, 

FHANKLIN SQUARE. 

1858. 






I'^atered, according to act of Congress, in the year one thousand eight lumdred 
and fifty-seven, by 

HARPER & BROTHERS, 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Southern District of New York 



PREFACE. 



Very suggestive of musical and pleasant thoughts is the Picture- 
gallery which this Preface opens ; and among them is the recollection 
of the manner in which these choice Word-paintings have been con- 
tributed by the Authors, or their representatives ; always with liberal 
promptness, and sometimes with expressions of personal good-will, to 
be gratefully ti'easured. Nor can I forget the generous enterprise of 
the Publishers, and the tasteful skill of the Brothers Dalziel, by whom 
the grace and the beauty of the pencil have been translated into the 
popular language of their own Art. 

The Volume embraces a period of about eighty-five years, for the 
first Canto of tlie Minstrel appeared in 1771 ; Beattie survived Cowper 
only three years ; whde Percy, exchanging the friendship of Goldsmith 
for that of Scott, lived into the eleventh year of this century. The 
dates of tliese poets might seem to exclude them from our calendar : 
but, in truth, the fancy of the present age was largely inspii-ed and 
moulded by the past ; and the sentiment of the Minstrel, the natural- 
ness of the Task, and the simplicity of the Reliques, very strikingly 
reappear in Campbell, "Wordsworth, and Scott. Nor has the embel- 
lished landscape of Darwin been without imitators ; while the foot- 
prints of Rogers are easily traced in the trim garden-paths of Playley. 
One member of the classic band will be less familiar to general read- 
ers : I allude to Professor Crowe, whose descriptive poem is written 
with fine taste, and in choice numbers. The traveller, walking from 
Charmouth to Lyme, discovers Lewesdon Hill on the right hand, and 
forming one of the boundaries to a rich vale chequered by enclosures. 

Our Poetiy owes many beauties to womanly genius, and in the fol- 
lowing pages some specimens of it will be found. The " Psyche" of 



iv PREFACE. 

Mary Tighe yet lives in the memory of Taste; but Scotland furnisher 
a greater name : " K you wish to speak of a real poet," Scott said to 
Ballantyne, "Joanna Baillie is now the highest genius of our country." 
He numbered the description of Orra's madness with the sublimest 
scenes ever vvritten, and compared the language to Shakspeare's. The 
Songs of Mrs. Hemans afford a lively contrast. It was her misfortune 
that she wrote to live, instead of living to write. Her compositions, 
therefore, are unequal ; but in her best pieces the eye is delighted by 
the glow and colour, and the ear is soothed by the varied cadence — 
often delicious, never harsh. The visionary tenderness and romance of 
Mrs. EadclifFe are breathed over the Address to Melancholy, and the 
Song of a Spirit. The quotation from Hannah More was chosen for 
the subject which it offered to the Artist, who has so happily embodied 
it in his genre sketches. The chaste elegance of Mrs. Barbauld is of a 
higher order; and very true poetic feeling and vitterance are conspicu- 
ous in the local pictures and the tender Sonnets of Charlotte Smitli, 
which Miss Seward, clever in her spite, called " everlasting duns upon 
pity." 

One name in the tuneful Sisterhood has a home interest for me- 
lt seems but yesterday that the shutters were shut in " Our Village," 
and Mary Russell Mitford went from among us. "\Yhile turning over 
the leaves of this book, I have thought of the kindly welcome with 
which she would have greeted the illustration of her own " Eienzi," 
if I had taken it to her on one of these soft autumn days which she 
loved so much, and when her familiar lanes and dingles wear their 
sweetest colours. She had compared her old abode to a bird-cage that 
might be laid on a shelf, or linng upon a tree ; and her latest dwelling 
was hardly less odd, or dwarfish. But there, also, she had a cool re- 
treat out of doors, in the shade of her garden, and I see her sitting 
in it now with table and book; constant to all her little heresies of 
taste ; reading the interminable Richardson every year, preferring 
wood - embers to the fairest moonbeams that ever lighted lovers, and 
panegyrising the nightingale's song, if accompanied by the moan of the 
pigeon. 

But the Brotherhood has names, also, to be remembered by mo 
with very sincere regard. Wlien I read the description of the dying 



PKEFACE. V 

Adam by James Montgomery — a passage exquisite in conception, im- 
agery, and language — the author is before me as I saw him in my 
early youth. Lisle Bowles is another name to be marked with a white 
stone. A delightful spot was BremhUl — indeed, is still — with the 
([uaint garden, and the swans. Snow-drop and Lily, sailing up to the 
parlour window to inquire after their dinner, and Peter the hawk, and 
the Vicar holding his watch to his ear, to make sure that he had not 
grown deaf since breakfast. Southey visited the Parsonage when the 
loveable old man was in his seventy-third year, and presented to the 
eye of his friend the most entertaining mixture that could be of un- 
tidiness, simplicity, benevolence, timidity, and good-nature ; but nobody 
smiled at his oddities more heartily than the owner. The poetical 
merits of Bowles are great. His sonnets delighted Coleridge, and even 
Byron acknowledged the excellence of The Missionary. 

Of all the elder poets of our time, my examples are less numerous 
than I had hoped to giye. The lines of "Wordsworth on Tintern Ab- 
bey are omitted from want of room ; and the most striking effort of 
Southey's imagination, the agony of Kailyal at her father's flight, was 
ill adapted for pictorial use. The fame of Coleridge, however, wUl not 
suffer loss by resting on Genevieve, who has caught a new grace from 
the hand of Millais. Among these earlier poems, the reader will be 
attracted by the Legend of Kilmeny, which, for a moment, lifts the 
Shepherd to the side of Burns ; by the sunshiny morals of Praed, who 
reminds me of an Ariosto brought up in England; and by the sea- 
views and the Dutch painting of Crabbe. 

If I could have turned my Preface into an illustrated catalogue, 
these poems would have furnished agreeable notes; for to many some 
little story is attached ; as in the case of Keats, whose Ode to the 
Nightingale was written in the spring of 1819, when the fatal disease 
lay so hea%y at his heart, that Coleridge, meeting him in a lane near 
Highgate, remarked — "There is death in that hand." The stanzas 
beginning " The sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill" become more affecting, 
when we are told that Scott composed them during the languor of 
sickness, and that they mark the very spot of their birth, now clothed 
by rich woodlands, the work of the Poet's hand. The Elm Tree 
might also claim a paragraph, to tell of the solemn Avenue which 



vi PREFACE. 

inspired it ; and certainly " Umbrageous Ham" has not been mused in 
by a more genial visitor, since the frequent feet of Thomson broke the 
shadows. The noble verses — "Wine of Cyprus" — should recall the 
memory of the blind Scholar to whom they were addressed ; and the 
compositions of Frances Brown will lose a charm if the shadow on 
her eyes be forgotten. But of living Poets I may not speak. They 
are here to speak for themselves in tones of harmony, grandeur, and 
l^athos, to which few ears, I suppose, will be deaf The list might 
have been enlarged, but a great Constituency can only be represented 
by a few Members. 

R. A. "WiLLMOTT. 

St. Catherine's, October 2, 185G. 



AMERICAN PREFACE, 

The volume of "Poets of the Nineteenth Century," edited by the 
Rev. R. A. WiLLMOTT, a most loving and judicious critic of English 
literature, is here preserved entire, with some important extensions. 
The selections have been increased from four hundred to six hundred 
pages, and a proportional addition has been made to the number of En- 
gravings. The new material, m both instances, will be found indicated 
in the Table of Contents. 

The work of Mr. Willmott Avas confined to writers of his own coun, 
try. In the present volume a liberal space has been given to American 
authors, illustrated by American artists. Additional illustrations of 
English poems are furnished from the pencils of painters of eminent 
merit — making the woi-k a very comprehensive representation of the 
art of the day as applied to literature. 

New York, November, 1857. 



CONTENTS. 



,1 Star prefixed to the Titles indicates matter added in the present American Edition. 



JAMES BEATTIE. 

THK POET IN YOUTH 1 

MORNING LANDSCAPE 4 

CALM AND STORM 5 

A VALLEY AMONG THE HILLS C 

RETIREMENT 8 



THOMAS PERCY. 

THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY 47 

GENTLE RIVER 51 



WILLIAM COWPER. 



YAUDLEY OAK 

LINES TO MY MOTHER's PICTURE 



GEORGE CRABBE. 

A GIPSY ENCAMPMENT 55 

MARINE VIEWS - 57 

11 ' A GOOD VILLAGER C2 

17 THE PARTING LOOK C5 



WILLIAM IIAYLEY. 

THK VISION OK SERENA 21 

JAMES IIURDIS. 

ItllRAL SOUNDS 24 

CHARLOTTE SMITH. 

THE SWALLOW 26 

SONNET AVRITTEN AT THE CLOSE OK SPRING 29 

SONNET 30 

SONNET ON THE DEPARTURE OF THE NIGHT- 
INGALE ib. 

FROM "BEACIIY HEAD" 31 



ANNA SEWARD. 



SONG . 



35 



ERASMUS DARWIN. 

MARCH OF CAMBYSES 36 

THREE IMPRESSIONS OF ANTIQUE GEMS 38 

TASTE 39 

WILLIAM CROWE. 

LEWESDON HILI 41 



MARY TIGHE. 

PSYCHE GAZING UPON THE LOVE-GOD 66 

ANN RADCLIFFE. / 

TO MELANCHOLY 69 

SONG OF A SPIRIT 71 

ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD. 

A SUMMER evening's MEDITATION 73 

A PETITION 77 

HANNAH MORE. 

FLORIO AND HIS FRIEND 78 

W. LISLE BOWLES. 

RETURN TO OXFORD 88 

ON THE RHINE H. 

THE CELL OF THE MISSIONARY 90 

THE HOME OF THE OLD INDIAN 92 

LANDING AT TYNEMOUTII 97 

THE BURIAL PLACE 98 

SUNRISE 100 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

SAMUEL ROGERS. 
TUE OLD HOUSE 102 

MOTHER AND CHILD 104 

AMELIA OPIE. 

THE ORPH.\N boy's TALE 106 

WILLIAM SPENCER. 

TO THE LADY ANNE HAMILTON 108 

*WIFE, CHILDREN, AND FRIENDS 109 

LORD BYRON. 

THE PRISONER OF CHILLON Ill 

THE DREAM 123 

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 

WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES 131 

TO NIGHT 133 

SPRING 134 

JOHN KEATS. 

ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE ? 135 

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 

LOVE 139 

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 

THE GLORY OF IMAGINATION 143 

A CLOUD PICTURE 144 

DION 146 

INCIDENT AT BRUGES 150 

A JEWISH FAMILY 152 

*A PORTRAIT 154 

*LUCY 155 

* SONNET COMPOSED UPON 'WESTMINSTER 

BRIDGE 156 

CHARLES LMIB. 

HESTER. A REMEMBRANCE 157 

VERSES FOR AN ALBUM 158 

HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

THE HERB ROSEMARY 159 

ODE TO DISAPPOINTMENT 160 



PACK 

WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 

* AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN 162 

* ROSALIE 163 

*A FRAGMENT 164 

RICHARD HENRY DANA. 

*THE husband's AND WIFE's GRAVE 165 

*A CLUMP OF DAISIES 160 

SAMUEL WOODWORTH. 

* THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET 171 

WALTER SCOTT. 

THE SUN UPON THE WEIRDLAW HILL 172 

M.\RMION DYING 174 

THE BURNING OF ROKEBYf 176 

THOMAS CAMPBELL. 

THE soldier's DREAM 180 

the exile of erin 181 

drinking song of munich 183 

locihel's warning 184 

hohenlinden 187 

battle of the baltic 189 

ye mariners of england 191 

RICHARD HENRY WILDE. 

* stanzas 194 

JAMES MONTGOMERY. 

THE DEATH OF ADAM 195 

JOANNA BAILLIE. 

THE PHRENZY OF ORRA 198 

JAMES GRAHAME. 

THE SABBATH 202 

SUNDAY TO THE SHIPWRECKED 204 

A SABBATH WALK IN SUMMER 206 

ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. 

LAMBS AT PLAY 210 

THE farmer's BOY IN THE FIELDS 212 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 

* BURNS 215 

* A poet's epitaph 216 

* SPRING 21*7 

THOMAS- MOORE. 

THE LAMENT OF THE PERI FOR HIND A.... 218 
NOURMAHAL 220 

CHARLES WOLFE. 

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE 221 

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 

THE poet's BRIDAL-DAY SONG 223 

A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA 225 

SIDNEY WALKER. 

TO A GIRL IN HER THIRTEENTH YEAR 227 

JAMES HOGG. 

THE RAPTURE OF KILMENY 229 

CHARLES SPRAGUE. 

* THE WINGED WORSHIPPERS 236 

* THE BROTHERS 237 

FELICIA HEMANS. 

THE CORONATION OF INEZ DE CASTRO 238 

THE MESSAGE TO THE DEAD 242 

THE RETURN 243 

MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. 

RIENZI AND HIS DAUGHTER 245 

SONG 248 

LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY. 

* THE INDIAN SUMMER 249 

* THE HOLY DEAD 251 

* TALK WITH THE SEA 252 

REGINALD HEBER. 

THE PASSAGE OF THE RED SEA 254 

* LINES ADDRESSED TO MRS. HEBER 258 

* LINES WRITTEN TO A MARCH 260 



ROBERT SOUTHEY. 

THE VISIT OF MADOC. A SCENE AMONG 

THE WELSH HILLS 261 

THE WORLD OF WOE 263 

THALABA IN THE TENT OF MOATH 265 

SUNLIGHT ON THE OCEAN 270 

CAROLINE BOWLES (MRS. SOUTHEY). 

* SUNDAY EVENING 27l 

JOHN LEYDEN. 

TO THE EVENING STAR 275 

TO AN INDIAN GOLD COIN 277 

JOHN CLARE. 

* MARY LEE 279 

JOHN G. C. BRAINARD. 

* SALMON RIVER 282 

* THE BLACK FOX OF S.VLMON EIVER 284 

EDWARD COATE PINKNEY. 

*A HEALTH 286 

* A PICTURE-SONG 287 

CLEMENT C. MOORE. 

* A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS 288 

BERNARD BARTON. 

TO THE EVENING PRIMROSE 291 

WILLIAM SOTHEBY. 

RHINEFIELD, A LODGE IN THE NEW FOR- 
EST 293 

SKIRID, A HILL NEAR ABERGAVENNY 294 

ON CROSSING THE ANGLESEY STRAIT TO 

BANGOR AT MIDNIGHT ib. 

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 

* SONG OF Marion's men 295 

* GREEN RIVER 298 

* THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS 301 

* THE LAND OF DREAMS 302 

* THE HUNTER OF THE PRAIRIES 304 



CONTENTS. 



* THE GLADNESS OF NATURE 307 

* WILLIAM TELL 308 

* AN INVITATION TO THE COUNTRY 309 

JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 

* BRONX 311 

* SONNET 313 

FITZ GREENE HALLECK. 

* RED JACKET 314 

* CONNECTICUT 318 

* ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE 321 

HORACE SMITH. 

* THE FIRST OF MARCH 323 

GEORGE DARLEY. 

* HARVEST HOME 324 

WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED. 

CHILDHOOD AND HIS VISITORS 325 

THE VICAR 327 

A CHARADE 330 

THOMAS HOOD. 

THE ELM TREE. A DREAM IN THE WOODS 332 

THOMAS PRINGLE. 

AFAR IN THE DESERT 347 

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 

THE WATER-NYMPH APPEARING TO THE 

SHEPHERD 351 

RODERIGO AND JULIAN 353 

JOSEPH BLANCO WHITE. 

* NIGHT AND DEATH 355 



HENRY HART MILMAN. 

THE HEBREW WEDDING 361 

THE COMING OF THE JUDGE 363 

LEIGH HUNT. 

AN ITALIAN GARDEN 365 

ABOU BEN ADEEM 368 

GEORGE CROLY. 

THE ALHAMBRA 369 

FLORA 371 

SAMUEL FERGUSON. 

* THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR 372 

JOHN MOULTRIE. 

THE THREE SONS 376 

"forget THEE?" 378 

THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY. 

THE SPANISH ARMADA 379 

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. 

* JEANIE MORRISON 382 

* THEY come! THE MERRY SUMMER MONTHS 385 
*A SOLEMN CONCEIT 386 

HENRY" TAYLOR. 

ARTEVELDE IN GHENT 389 

ERNESTO 396 



JOHN. KEBLE. 



THE LILIES OF THE FIELD. 



356 



DAVID MACBETH MOIR. 

CASA WAPPY 



399 



RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH. 

THE SPILT PEARLS 404 

RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 

* THE HUMBLE-BEE 406 

CHARLES FENNO HOFFMANN. 



children's thankfulness 358 * sp.\rkling and bright 408 



CONTENTS. 



GEORGE P. MORRIS. 

* 'WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TKEE 409 

* POETRY 410 

RALPH HOYT. 

* SNOW A WINTER SKETCH 41] 

WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS. 

* BLESSINGS ON CDILDEEN 416 

NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 

* UNSEEN SPIRITS 419 

* LITTLE FLORENCE GRAY 420 

HENRY ALFORD. 

HYMN TO THE SEA 423 

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 

* THE BALLAD OF BOLTLLABAISSE 426 

* THE END OF THE PLAY 429 

ALFRED TENNYSON. 

THE MAY QUEEN 432 

* MORTE d' ARTHUR 439 

* EDWARD GRAY 449 

* THE GOOSE 451 

BREAK, BREAK, BREAK 454 

PHILIP PENDLETON COOKE. 

* FLORENCE VANCE 456 

* YOUNG ROSALIE LEE 457 

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 

* MAUD MULLER 459 

* GONE 463 



HENRY THEODORE TUCKERMAN. 

* WEST POINT 482 

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 

* THE LAST LEAF 485 

* ON LENDING A PUNCH-BOWL 488 

ALFRED B. STREET. 

* A FOREST NOOK 491 

ROBERT BROWNING. 

TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA 494 

EVELYN HOPE 497 

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 

WINE OF CYPRUS 499 



CHARLES KINGSLEY. 

THE THREE FISHERS 

THE SANDS OF DEE 

* THE DAY OF THE LORD 



505 
606 

507 



EDGAR ALLAN POE. 

THE RAVEN 



466 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 

* HYMN TO THE NIGHT 471 

* RESIGNATION 473 

* KING WITLAf's DRINKING-HORN 47 6 



EXCELSIOR , 



WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN. 

* THE BURL\L-MARCH OF DUNDEE 508 

THOMAS DAVIS. 

THE SACK OF BALTIMORE 514 

EDWARD BULWER LYTTON. 

EVA 517 

BRYAN WALLER PROCTER. 

THE HISTORY OF A LIFE 526 

WITHIN AND WITHOUT 527 



EDWIN ATHERSTONE. 

BATTLE SCENES 



MARY HOWITT. 

THE BALLAD OF RICHARD BURNELL. 



MATTHEW ARNOLD. 

479 * TO A GIPSY CHILD BY THE SHORE. 



530 



533 



547 



CONTENTS. 



W. C. BENNETT. 

* baby's shoes 550 

* lillvn's epitaph 551 

ALEXANDER SMITH. 

SCENE THE BANKS OF A EIVER 552 

PICTURES 554 

PHILIP JAilES BAILEY. 

A SUMMER NIGHT OoY 

WORDS 558 

PORTRAIT OF A LADY 559 

SHERIDAN KNOWLES. 

■ras APPEAL AND THE REPROOF 560 



GERALD MASSEY. 

OUR VrEE WHITE ROSE 

THAT MERRY, MERRY MAY 



564 

566 

BABE CHRISTABEL 568 



WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 

AUTUMNAL SONNET 



5V0 



CHARLES MACKAY. 

YOUTH AND SORROW 571 

FRANCES BROWN. 

THE HOPE OF THE RESURRECTION 5*74 

ALL THINGS NEW o76 



THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS. 

* SORRENTO 579 

* SAINT PERAY 581 

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 

* THE SINGING LEAVES 584 

* LONGING 588 

* AUF WIEDERSEHEN ! 589 

* PALINODE 590 



MARIA LOWELL. 

THE ALPINE SHEEP 



592 



ALICE CAREY. 

* PICTURES OF MEMORY 594 

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. 

* THE WAYSIDE SPRING 596 

* THE CLOSING SCENE 598 

BAYARD TAYLOR. 

* KILIMANDJARO 601 

* BEDOUIN SONG 603 

RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. 

* THE TWO BRIDES 605 

WILLIAJyi ALLEN BUTLER. 

* NOTHING TO WEAR 606 



LIST OF ILLUSTEATIONS. 



.1 Star prefixed to the Titles indicates new Illustrations m the present American Edition. 



The Poet in Youth Beattic B.Foster 1 

A Valley among the Hills Ditto W. Harvey 6 

Retieement ...Ditto Ditto 8 

Yardley Oak Cowpcr Ditto 11 

Lines to my Mother's Picture Ditto /. Gilbert 17 

The Vision of Serena Haylcy A.Hughes 21 

Rural Sounds Hurdis H. Weir 24 

The Swallow Charlotte Smith. B. Foster 26 

From "Beachy Head" Ditto Ditto 31 

The Shepherd's Home Ditto Ditto 33 

Taste Darivin T. Dalziel 39 

Lewesdon Hill Croioe B. Foster 41 

The Tihesty Lamb Ditto Ditto 44 

The Friar of Orders Gray Percy /. Tcnniel 47 

Gentle River Ditto Ditto 53 

A Gipsy Encampment Crabbe B. Foster 55 

Marine Views:— Calm Ditto E. Duncan 59 

Storm Ditto Ditto 61 

A Good Villager Ditto J. R. Clayton 62 

To Melancholy Ajin Raddiffe...B. Foster 69 

A Su:mmer Evening's Meditation A. L. Barbauld .Ditto 13 

Florio and ms Friend:— The Lounge Hannah More... J. Godwin 78 

The Opera Ditto Ditto 86 

On the Rhine Bowles .7. D. Harding 89 

The Home of the Old Indian Ditto W. Harvey 95 

Landing at Tynemouth Ditto T. Dalziel 97 

Sunrise Ditto W. Harvey 101 

The Old House Rogers G. Dodgson 103 

The Orphan Boy's Tale A^nclia Opie ....T. Dalziel 107 

The Prisoner of Cuillon Byron F. M. Brown 113 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



DRAWN BY 



The Dream Ditto /. E. Millais, A.R.A .... 125 

Written in Dejection near N.\ples Shellci/ W. L. Leitch 131 

Ode to a Nightingale Keats B.Foster 135 

The Stream Ditto Ditto 138 

Love Coleridge J. E. Millais, A.R.A .... 139 

The Glory of Imagination Wordsworth B.Foster 143 

Incident at Bruges Ditto J. R. Clayton 151 

* The Husband's and Wife's Grave Dana /. H. Hill 165 

The Sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill Scott B.Foster 1*72 

Marmion — Dying Ditto J. Tenniel 174 

The Burning of Rokeby Ditto Ditto 1Y6 

The Exile of Erin Campbell T. Dalziel 182 

HoHENLiNDEN Ditto J. Gilbert 188 

Ye Mariners of England Ditto E. Duncan 192 

The Sabbath Grahame B. Foster 203 

A Sabbath Walk in Summei: Ditto Ditto 207 

Lambs at Play Bloomficld W. Harvey 211 

The Farmer's Boy in the Fields Ditto B. Foster 213 

The Lament of the Peri for Hinda Moore W. Harvey 218 

The Burial of Sir John Moore .....Wolfe J. Gilbert 222 

A Wet Sheet and a Floaving Sea A. Cunningham.E. Duncan 225 

To a Girl in her Thirteenth Year Sidney Walker. .J. R. Clayton 228 

The Rapture of Kilmeny: — 

The Land of Thought Hogg W. Harvey 232 

The Lanely Glen Ditto Ditto 234 

The Coronation of Inez de Castro Felicia Hemans. J. Gilbert 238 

Rienzi and his Daughter M. R. Mitford. . .J. Tenniel 246 

* The Indian Summer Sigourncy /. H.Hill 249 

The Visit of Madoc Southey /. Gilbert 261 

Thalaba in the Tent of Moath Ditto W. Harvey 265 

To the Evening Star Leyden G. Dodgson 275 

* A Visit from St. Nicholas C. C.Moore F. 0. C. Darley 288 

To the Evening Primrose B. Barton Ditto 291 

RniNEFiELD, — A LoDGE IN THE New F0B.EST. Sotkeby W. Harvey 293 

* Song of Marion's Men Bryant F. O. C. Darley 295 

* Green River Ditto /. H.Hill 298 

* The Hunter of the Prairies Ditto F. 0. C. Darley 304 

* The Gladness of Nature Ditto /. //. Hill 307 

* Bronx Drake J. W. Casilear 311 

* Red Jacket Halleck F. 0. C. Darley 314 

* Connecticut Ditto Ditto 318 

The Vicar Praed J. Gilbert 327 

The Elm Tree:— The Avenue T.Hood G. Dodgson 333 

The Woodman Ditto Ditto 339 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. xv 

SUBJECT. AUTHOK DRAWN BY PAGE 

Afar in the Desert Pringle W.Harvey 347 

The Water-Nymph appearing to the Shep- 
herd Landor F. R. Fickersgill,A.E.A. 351 

The Lilies of the Field Keble B.Foster- 356 

The Hebrew Wedding Milman E. H. Corbould 362 

An Italian Garden Leigh Hunt G. Dodgson 366 

The Alhambra Croly W. Harveij 369 

The Three Sons Moultrie /. Gilbert 375 

The Spanish Armada Maeaulay Ditto 379 

Artevelde in Ghent Taylor J.R.Clayton 392 

The Spilt Pearls Trench W. Harvey 404 

* Snow — a Winter Sketch Hoyt F. 0. C. Barley 411 

* Blessings on Children Simnis Ditto 416 

Hymn to the Sea Alford E.Duncan 424 

The May Queen Tennyson T. Dalziel 432 

New-tear's Eve Ditto Ditto 434 

Conclusion Ditto Ditto 436 

Tailpiece Ditto Ditto 438 

* MoRTE d' Arthur: — 

* ExcALiBUR Ditto D. Maclise 439 

« Death Scene Ditto Ditto 447 

* Edward Gray Ditto ./. E. Milled.^ 449 

* The Goose Ditto W. Mulready 451 

* Break, Break, Break Ditto G. Stanfield 454 

* Maud Muller Whittle):... F. 0. C. Darley 459 

*The Raven Foe Ditto 466 

* Hymn to the Night Longfellow /. Gilbert 471 

* Resignation Ditto Ditto 473 

* King Witlaf's Drinking-Horn : — 

*■ The Carouse Ditto Ditto 476 

* Monk Reading Ditto Ditto 477 

* Excelsior Ditto F. 0. G. Darley 479 

* West Point Tuckerman ,/. W. Casilcar 482 

* The Last Leaf Holmes F. 0. G. Darley 485 

* On lending a Punch-Bowl Ditto Ditto 488 

* A Forest Nook Street /. H.Hill 491 

Two in the Campagna R.Browning — E. A. Goodall 495 

Wine of Cyprus E. B. Browning. J. R. Glayton 499 

The Three Fishers Kingsley T. Dalziel 505 

The Sack of Baltimore Davis James Godwin 514 

Eva: — The Maiden's Home Bulwer Lytton..J. Gilbert 517 

The Stranger Suitor Ditto T. Dalziel 520 

The Return Ditto Ditto 523 

The History of a Life Procter D. Edwards 526 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



Within and Without Ditto James Godwin 528 

Battle Scenes Atherstone E. H. Corbould 530 

Richard Burnell: — 

Young Burnell and Alice Mary Hoxvitt ....James Godwin 634 

The Marriage of Alice Ditto Ditto 540 

BUENELL AND AlICE IN THE TeMPLE 

Gardens Ditto Ditto 546 

The Banks of a River A. Smith B.Foster 553 

Pictures Ditto Ditto 555 

A Summer Night Bailey Ditto 557 

The Appeal and the Reproof Knowles J. Tenniel 560 

Our Wee White Rose Massey J. R. Clayton 565 

That Merry, Merry May Ditto D. Edimrds 667 

Aututvinal Sonnet Allingliam G. Dodgson 570 

Youth and Sorrow Mackay E. H. Corboidd 573 

The Hope of the. Resurrection Brown Ditto 575 

* The Singing Leaves J.R.Lowell /. H. Hill 584 

* The WaysiI)e Spring Read Ditto 596 

* Nothing to Wear: — 

*The Lady W. A. Butler....A. Hoppin 606 

* The Beggar Ditto Ditto 616 




BEATTIE. 



THE P(>ET IN YOUTH. 



Lo! Avhcre the stripling, ^\'I•al)t in wonder, rove^ 
Renentli tlie preci])ic(" (>'erliiui«r with ]>ine. 

I 



THE POET IN YOUTH. 

And sees on high, amidst tli' encircling groves. 
From cliff to cliiF the foaming torrents shine ; 
While waters, woods, and winds in concert join, 
And Echo swells the chorus to the skies. 
Would Edwin this majestic scene resign 
For aught the huntsman's puny craft supplies? 
Ah ! no ; he better knows great Nature's charms to prize. 

And oft he trac'd the uplands, to survey, 
When o'er the sky advanc'd the kindling dawn. 
The crimson cloud, blue main, and mountain grey, 
And lake, dim gleaming on the smoky lawn : 
Far to the West the long, long vale Avithdrawn, 
Where twilight loves to linger for awhile ; 
And now he faintly kens the bounding fawn. 
And villager abroad at early toil, 
l>ut, lo ! the sun appears ! and heaven, earth, ocean smile. 

And oft the craggy cliff he lov'd to climb, 
When all in mist the world below was lost. 
What dreadful pleasure! there to stand sublime, 
Like shipwreck'd mariner on desert coast. 
And view th' enormous waste of vapour, toss'd 
In billows, lengthening to th' horizon round, 
Now scoop'd in gulfs, with mountains now emboss'd ! 
And hear the voice of mirth and song rebound, 
Flocks, herds, and waterfalls, along the hoar profound ! 

In truth, he was a strange and wayward wight. 
Fond of each gentle and each dreadful scene. 
In darkness and in storm he found delight; 
Nor less, than when on ocean-wave serene 
The southern sun diffus'd his dazzling sheen. 
E'en sad vicissitude amus'd his soul ; 
And if a sigh Avould sometimes intervene. 
And down his cheek a tear of pity roll, 
A sigh, a tear so sweet he wish'd not to control. 



15EATT1E. 

See, in the rear of the warm sunny shower 
The visionary boy from shelter fly ; 
For now the storm of summer rain is o'er, 
And cool, and fresh, and fragrant is the sky. 
And, lo ! in the dark East, expanded high, 
The rainbow brightens to the setting sun ! 
P'ond fool, that deem'st the streaming glory nigh ; 
How vain the chase thine ardour has begun ! 
'Tis fled afar, ere half thy purpos'd race be run. 

When the long-sounding curfew from afar 
Loaded with loud lament the lonely gale, 
Young Edwin, lighted by the evening star, 
Lingering and listening, wander'd down the vale. 
There would he dream of graves and corses pale. 
And ghosts that to the charncl-dungcon throng, 
And drag a length of clanking chain, and wail, 
Till silenc'd by the owl's terrific song. 
Or blast that shrieks by fits the shuddering aisles along. 

Or, when the setting moon, in crimson dyed. 
Hung o'er the dark and melancholy deep. 
To haunted streams, remote from man, he hied, 
Where fays of yore their revels wont to keep ; 
And there let Fancy rove at large, till sleep 
A vision brought to his entranced sight. 
And first, a wildly murmuring wind 'gan creep 
Shrill to his ringing ear ; then tapers bright, 
\V'ith instantaneous gleam, illum'd the vault of night. 

Anon in view a portal's blazon'd arch 
Arose ; the trumpet bids the valves unfold ; 
And forth an host of little warriors march. 
Grasping the diamond laiicc and targe of gold. 
Their look was gentle, their demeanour bold. 
And green their helms, and green their silk attire : 
And here and there, right venerably old, 

3 



MORNING LANDSCAPE. 

The long-rob' cl minstrels wake the warbling wii-e, 
And some with mellow breath the martial pipe inspire. 

With merriment, and song, and timbrels clear, 
A troop of dames from myrtle bowers advance ; 
The little warriors doff the targe and spear, 
And loud enlivening strains provoke the dance. 
They meet, they dart away, they wheel askance ; 
To right, to left, they thrid the flying maze ; 
Now bound aloft with vigorous spring, then glance 
Kapid along : with many-colour'd rajs 
Of tapers, gems, and gold, the echoing forests blaze. 



MORNING LANDSCAPE. 



But who the melodies of morn can tell"? 
The wild brook babbling down the mountain side ; 
The lowing herd ; the sheepfold's simple bell : 
The pipe of early shepherd dim descried 
Tn the lone valley; echoing far and wide. 
The clamorous horn along the cliffs above ; 
The hollow murmur of the ocean tide; 
The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love, 
And the full choir that Avakes the universal grove. 

The cottage-curs at early pilgrim bark ; 
Crown'd with her pail, the tripping milkmaid sings 
The whistling ploughman stalks afield; and, hark! 
Do-WTi the rough slope the ponderous waggon rings : 
Through rustling corn the hare astonish'd springs ; 
4 



BEATTIE. 

Slow tolls the village clock the di'owsy hour ; 

The partridge bursts away on whirring wings; 

Deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower, 

And shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tower. 



CALM AND STORM. 



Oft when the winter storm had ceas'd to rave, 
lie roam'd the snowy waste at even, to view 
The cloud stupendous, from th' Atlantic wave 
High towering, sail along th' horizon blue : 
Where, 'midst the changeful scenery ever new, 
Fancy a thousand wondrous forms descries. 
More wildly great than ever pencil drew — 
Kocks, torrents, gulfs, and shapes of giant size, 
^Vnd glitt'ring cliiFs on cliffs, and fiery ramparts rise. 

Thence musing onward to the sounding shore, 
The lone enthusiast oft would take his way. 
Listening, with pleasing dread, to the deep roar 
Of the wide-weltering waves. In black array 
When sulphurous clouds roll'd on th' autumnal day ; 
E'en then he hasten' d from the haunt of man, 
Along the trembling wilderness to stray, 
What time the lightning's fierce career began. 
And o'er heaven's rending arch the rattling thunder ran. 






A VALLEY AMONG THE HILLS. 



Thither he hied, enamour' d of the scene ; 
F'or rocks on rocks pil'd, as by magic spell, 
Here scorch'd with lightning, there with ivy green. 
Fenc'd from the north and east this savage dell. 
Southward a mountain rose A\'ith easy swell, 
"N^Tiose long, long groves eternal murmur made : 
And toward the western sun a streamlet fell, 
Where, through the cliffs, the eye remote survey'd 
Blue hills, and glittering waves, and skies in gold arraA'V 

G 



BEATTIE. 

Along this narrow valley you might see 
The AAilcl deer sporting on the level ground, 
Aiid, here and there, a solitary tree, 
Or mossy stone, or rock with woodbine cro^^'n'd. 
Oft did the cliffs reverberate the sound 
Of parted fragments tumbling from on high ; 
And from the summit of that craggy mound 
The piercing eagle oft was heard to cry, 
Or, on resounding wings, to shoot athwart the sk}-. 

One cultivated spot there was, that spread 
Its flowery bosom to the noonday beam, 
Where many a rosebud rears its blushing head, 
And herbs for food with future plenty teem. 
Sooth'd by the lulling sound of grove and stream. 
Romantic visions swarm on Edwin's soul : 
He minded not the sun's last trembling gleam, 
Nor heard from for the twilight curfew toll ; 
When slowly on his ear these moving accents stole : 

•' Hail, a-wful scenes, that calm the troubled breast, 
And woo the weary to profound repose I 
Can passion's wildest uproar lay to rest. 
And whisper comfort to the man of Avoes? 
Here Innocence may wander, safe from foes, 
And Contemplation soar on seraph wings. 
O Solitude ! the man who thee foregoes. 
When lucre lures him, or ambition stings, 

Shall ne^er know the source whence real grandeur springs. 




RETIREMENT. 



When in the crimson cloud of even, 

The lingering light decays, 
And Hesper on the front of heaven 

His glittering gem displays ; 
Deep in the silent vale, unseen, 

Beside a lulling stream, 
A pensive youth, of placid mien, 

Indulg'd this tender theme : 



■ Ye cliflfs, in hoary grandeur pil'd. 
High o'er the glimmering dale ; 
Ye woods, along whose windings wild 

Murmurs the solemn gale : 
Where Melancholy strays forlorn, 

And Woe retires to Aveep, 
VVhat time the Avan moon's yellow horn 
Gleams on the western deep : 
8 



BEATTIE. 

' To you, ye wastes, whose artless charms 

Ne'er drew Ambition's eye, 
Scap'd a tumultuous woi-ld's alarms, 

To your retreats I fly. 
Deep in your most sequester'd bower 

Let me at last recline, 
Where Solitude, mild, modest Power, 

Leans on her ivied shrine. 

• HoAv shall I Avoo thee, matchless Fair ? 

Thy heavenly smile how win ? 
Thy smile that smooths the brow of Care, 

And stills the storm within? 
O, wilt thou to thy favourite gi'ove 

Thine ardent votary bring, 
And bless his hours, and bid them move 

Serene, on silent wing? 

Oft let Remembrance sooth his imnd 

With dreams of former days. 
When, in the lap of Peace reclin'd, 

He fram'd his infant lays ; 
Wlien Fancy rov'd at large, nor Care 

Nor cold Distrust alarm' d. 
Nor Envy with malignant glare 

His simple youth had harm'd. 

"Twas then, O Solitude! to thee 

His early vows were paid, 
From heart sincere, and warm, and free-, 

Devoted to the shade. 
Ah! why did Fate his steps decoy 

In stormy paths to roam, 
Remote from all congenial joy ? — 

O, take the Wanderer home! 




EETIREMENT. 

" Thy shades, thy silence, now be mine, 

Thy charms my only theme; 
My haunt the hollow cliff, whose pine 

Waves o'er the gloomy stream ; — 
Whence the scar'd owl on pinions gray 

Breaks from the rustling boughs, 
-Vnd do^\^l the lone vale sails awa}' 

To more profound repose. 

'■ 0, while to thee the woodland pours 

Its wildly warbling song, 
And balmy, from the bank of flowers, 

The zephyr breathes along ; 
Let no rude sound invade from iar, 

No vagrant foot be nigh, 
No ray from Grandeur's gilded car 

Flash on the startled eye. 

" But if some pilgrim through the glade 

Thy hallow'd bowers explore, 
O guard from harm his hoary head, 

And listen to his lore ; 
For he of joys divine shall tell, 

That wean from earthly woe, 
And triumph o'er the mighty spell 

That chains his heart below. 

"For me, no more the path invites 
Ambition loves to tread ; 
No more I climb those toilsome heights, 

By guileful Hope misled: 
Leaps my fond flutteriug heart no more 

To Mirth's enlivening strain; 
For present pleasure soon is o'er, 
And all the past is vain." 
10 




COWPER. 

YARDLEY OAK. 

Survivor soIp, and hardly such, of all 
That onoo liv'd lierc, thy brethren, at my birth. 
11 



YAEDLEY OiVK. 

(Since which I number threescore winters past,) 
A shatter'd vet'ran, hoUow-trunk'd perhaps, 
As now, and with excoriate forks deform, 
Relics of ages ! could a mind, imbued 
AVith truth from Heaven, created thing adore, 
I might with reverence kneel, and worship thee. 

It seems idolatry with some excuse. 
When our forefather Druids in their oaks 
Iraagin'd sanctity. The conscience, yet 
Unpurified by an authentic act 
Of amnesty, the meed of blood divine, 
Lov'd not the light, but, gloomy, into gloom 
Of thickest shades, like Adam after taste 
Of fruit proscribed, as to a refuge, fled. 

Thou wast a bauble once — a cup and ball, 
Which babes might play A^'ith ; and the thievish jay. 
Seeking her food, with ease might have purloin' d 
The auburn nut that held thee, swallowing down 
Thy yet close-folded latitude of boughs 
And all thine embryo vastness at a gulp. 
But Fate thy growth decreed ; autumnal rains 
Beneath thy parent tree mellow'd the soil 
Design'd thy cradle ; and a skipping deer. 
With pointed hoof dibbling the glebe, prepar'd 
The soft receptacle, in which, secure. 
Thy rudiments should sleep the winter through. 

So Fancy dreams. Disprove it, if ye can, 
Ye reas'ners broad awake, whose busy search 
Of argument, employ'd too oft amiss, 
Sifts half the pleasures of short life away ! 

Thou fell'st mature ; and in the loamy clod. 
Swelling with A'egetative force instinct, 
Did burst thine egg, as theirs the fo1)lcd Twins, 

12 



COWPEK. 

Now stars ; two lobes, protruding, paii-'d exact ; 
A leaf succeeded, and another leaf, 
And, all the elements thy puny growth 
Fost'ring propitious, thou becam'st a twig. 

Who liv'd, when thou wast such? O could'st thou spcal 
As in Dodona once thy kindred trees 
Oracular, I Avould not curious ask 
The future, best unknown, but at thy mouth, 
Inquisitive, the less ambiguous past. 

By thee I might correct, erroneous oft, 
The clock of history, facts and events 
Timing more punctual, unrecorded facts 
Eecovering, and misstated setting right, — 
Desp'rate attempt, till trees shall speak again! 

Time made thee A\'hat thou wast, king of the woods ; 
And Time hath made thee what thou art — a cave 
For owls to roost in. Once thy spreading boughs 
O'erhung the champaign ; and the num'rous flocks 
That graz'd it stood beneath that ample cope 
UncroAvded, yet safe-shelter'd from the storm. 
No flock frequents thee now. Thou hast outliv'd 
Thy popularity, and art become 
(Unless verse rescue thee awhile) a thing 
Forgotten, as the foliage of thy youth. 

While thus through all the stages thou hast pushM 
Of treeship — first a seedling, hid in grass ; 
Then twig ; then sapling ; and, as cent'ry rollM 
Slow after century, a giant-bulk 
Of girth enormous, with moss-cushion'd root 
Upheav'd above the soU, and sides emboss'd 
With prominent wens globose — till at the last 
The rottenness, which Time is charged t' inflict 
On other miglity ones, found also thee. 

13 



YAEDLEY OAK. 

What exliibitions various hath the world 
Witness' d of mutability, in all 
That we account most durable below ! 
Change is the diet on which all subsist, 
Created changeable, and change at last 
Desti-oys them. Skies uncertain now the heat 
Transmitting cloudless, and the solar beam 
Now quenching in a boundless sea of clouds — 
Calm and alternate storm, moisture and drought, 
Invigorate by turns the springs of life 
In all that live, plant, animal, and man. 
And in conclusion mar them. Nature's threads. 
Fine passing thought e'en in her coarsest works, 
Delight in agitation, yet sustain 
The force that agitates, not unimpair'd ; 
IJut, Avorn by frequent impulse, to the cause 
Of their best tone their dissolution OAve. 

Thought cannot spend itself, comparing still 
The great and little of thy lot, thy growth 
From almost nullity into a state 
Of matchless grandeur, and declension thence. 
Slow, into siich magnificent decay. 
Time was, when, settling on thy leaf, a fly 
Could shake thee to thy root — and time has been 
Wlien tempests could not. At thy firmest age 
Thou hadst within thy bole solid contents. 
That might have ribb'd the sides and plank'd the deck 
Of some flagg'd admiral ; and tortuous arms. 
The shipwright's darling treasure, didst present 
To the four-quarter'd winds, robust and bold, 
Warp'd into tough knee-timber, many a load! 
But the axe spar'd thee. In those thriftier days 
Oaks fell not, hewn by thousands to supply 
The bottomless demands of contest, wag'd 
For senatorial honours. Thus to Time 
The task was left to whittle thee away 

14 



COWPER. 

With his sly scythe, whose ever-nibbling edge 
Noiseless, an atom, and an atom more, 
Disjoining from the rest, has, unobserv'd, 
Achiev'd a labour which had far and wide. 
By man perform'd, made all the forest ring. 

Embowell'd now, and of thy ancient self 
Possessing nought but the scoop'd rind, that seems 
A huge throat calling to tlie clouds for drink. 
Which it would give in rivulets to thy root. 
Thou temptest none, but rather much forbidd'st 
The feller's toil, which thou could' st ill requite. 
Yet is thy root sincere, sound as the rock, 
A quarry of stout spUrs and knotted fangs, 
Which, crook'd into a thousand whimsies, clasp 
The stubborn soil, and hold thee still erect. 

So stands a kingdom whose foundation yet 
Fails not, in virtue and in wisdom laid. 
Though all the superstructure, hy the tooth 
Pulverized of venality, a shell 
Stands now, and semblance only of itself! 

• 
Thine arms have left thee. Winds have rent them oti 

Long since, and rovers of the forest wild. 

With bow and shaft, have burnt them. Some have left 

A splinter' d stump, bleach'd to a snowy white ; 

And some, memorial none where once they grcAv. 

But life still lingers in thee, and puts forth 

Proof not contemptible of what she can, 

Even where death predominates. The Spring 

Finds thee not less alive to her sweet force 

Than yonder upstarts of the neighb'ring wood. 

So much thy juniors, Avho their birth received 

Half a millennium since the date of thine. 

15 



YAKDLEY OAK. 

But since, although well qualified by ago 
To teach, no spirit dwells in thee, nor voice 
May be expected from thee, seated here 
On thy distorted root, with hearers none. 
Or prompter, save the scene, I will perform 
Myself the oracle, and Avill discourse 
In my oa\ti ear such matter as I may. 

One man alone, the father of us all, 
Drew not his life from woman ; never gaz'd, 
AVith mute unconsciousness of what he saw. 
On all around him ; learn'd not by degrees, 
Nor ow'd articulation to his car ; 
But, moulded by his Maker into man. 
At once upstood intelligent, survey'd 
All creatures, with precision vmderstood 
Their purport, uses, properties, assign'd 
To each his name significant, and, fill'd 
With love and wisdom, render d back to Heav'ii 
In praise harmonious the first air he drew. 
He was excus'd the penalties of dull 
Minority : no tutor charg'd his hand 
With the thought-tracing quill, or task'd his mind 
With problems. Plistory, not wanted yet, 
Lean'd on her elbow, watching Time, whose course. 
Eventful, should supply her with a theme. 



IG 




LINES TO MY MOTHER'S PICTURE. 



O THAT tlioso lips had languajre ! Life has pass'd 
"With 1110 but roughly since I heard tliec last. 
Those lips are thine — thy own sweet smile I see, 
The same that oft in childhood solac'd me ; 
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, 
"Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears awny!" 



LINES TO MY MOTHER'S PICTURE. 

The meek intelligence of those dear eyes 
(Blest be the art that can immortalize, 
The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim 
To quench it,) here shines on me still the same. 
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, 

welcome guest, though unexpected here ! 
Who bidst me honour with an artless song, 
Affectionate, a mother lost so long. 

1 will obey, not willingly alone, 

But gladly, as the precept were her o-mi ; 
And, while that face renews my filial grief, 
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief, 
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, 
A momentary dream that thou art she. 

My mother ! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, 
Say, Avast thou conscious of the tears I shed ? 
Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, 
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? 
Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss ; 
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — 
Ah, that maternal smile ! — it answers — Yes. 
I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day, 
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away. 
And, turning from my nursery window, drew 
A long, long sigh, and Avept a last adieu ! 
But was it such ? It was. — ^^Vhere thou art gone, 
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknoAA-n. 
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore. 
The parting words shall pass my lips no more ! 
Thy maidens, griev'd themselves at my concern, 
Oft gaA'e me pi'omise of thy quick return ; 
What ardently I Avish'd, I long belicA-'d, 
And, disappointed still, AA'as still deceiv'd ; 
By expectation eAery day beguil'd. 
Dupe of to-morrow CA'en from a child. 
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and Avent, 
Till, all my stock of infant sorroAV spent, 

18 



COWi'EK. 

1 learn' d at last submission to my lot, 

But, though I less deplor'd thee, ne'er forgot. 

AMiere once we dwelt our name is heard no more, 
Children not thine have trod my nurs'ry floor ; 
And where the gard'ner Kobin, day by day, 
Drew me to school along the public way. 
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wra])p'd 
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capp'd, 
'Tis now become a history little known. 
That once we call'd the pastoral house our own. 
Short-liv'd possession ! but the record fair. 
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, 
Still outlives many a storm, that has effac'd 
A thousand other themes less deeply trac'd. 
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, 
That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid ;— 
All this, and, more endearing still than all, 
Thy constant floAv of love, that knew no fall. 
Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks, 
That humour interpos'd too often makes; 
All this still legible in memory's page, 
And still to be so to my latest age. 
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 
Such honours to thee as my numbers may ; 
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere. 
Not scorn'd in heaven, though little notic'd here. 

Could Time, his flight revers'd, restore the hours. 
When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, 
The violet, the pink, and jessamine, 
1 prick'd them into paper with a pin, 
(And thou wast happier than myself the while, 
Would'st softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile,) 
Could those few pleasant days again appear. 
Might one wish bring them, woidd I wish them here? 
I would not trust my heart; — the dear delight 
Seems so to be desir'd, perhaps I might. — 
But no — what here we call our life is such, 

10 



LINES TO MY MOTHER'S nCTURE. 

So little to be lov'd, and thou so much, • 
That I should ill requite thee to constrain 
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. 

Thou, as a galjant bark from Albion's coast 
(The storms all weathei-'d, and the ocean cross'd) 
Shoots into port at some -well-haveu'd isle, \ 
Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, 
There sits quiescent on the floods, that show 
Her beauteous form reflected clear below. 
While airs impregnated with incense play 
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay ; 
So thou, with sails how swift! hast reach'd the shore. 
"Where tempests never beat, nor billows roar;" 
And thy lov'd consort, on the dangerous tide 
Of life, long since has anchor'd by thy side. 
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest. 
Always from port withheld, always distress'd, — 
Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-toss'd, 
Sails ripp'd, seams op'nmg wide, and compass lost, 
And day by day some current's thwarting force 
Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. 
Yet O the thought, that thou art safe, and he! 
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. 
My boast is not that I deduce my birth 
From loins enthron'd, and rulers of the earth ; 
But higher far my proud pretensions rise, — 
The son of parents pass'd into the skies. 
And now, farewell! — Time unrevok'd has run 
His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done. 
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, 
I seem t' have liv'd my childhood o'er again ; 
To have renew'd the joys that once were mine 
Without the sin of violating thine ; 
And while the wings of Fancy still are free, 
And I can view this mimic show of thee. 
Time has but half succeeded in his theft — 
Thyself remov'd, thy pow'r to soothe me left. 

20 




HAYLEY. 



THE VISION OF SERENA. 



" Well may'ist thou bend o'er this congenial sphere ; 
For Sensibility is Sovereign here. 
Thou seest her train of sprightly damsels sport, 
AVliere the soft spirit holds her rural court ; 
But fix tlune eye attentive to the phiin, 
And mark the varying wonders of her reign." 
As thus she spoke, she pois'd her airy seat 
High o'er a plain exhaling every sweet ; 
For round its precincts all the flowers that bloom 
Fill'd the delicious air with rich pei'fume ; 
And in the midst a verdant throne ap2)ear'd, 

21 



THE VISION OF SERENA. 

In simplest form by graceful fancy rear'd, 
And deck'd with flowers ; not such whose flaunting dye?^ 
Strike with the strongest tint our dazzl'd eyes; 
But those Avild herbs that tend'rest fibres bear, 
And shun th' approaches of a damper air. 
Here stood the lovely ruler of the scene, 
And beauty, more than pomp, announc'd The Queen. 
The bending snowdrop and the briar-rose, 
The simple circle of her cro^^'n compose ; 
Hoses of every hue her robe adorn. 
Except th' insipid rose without a thorn. 
Of that enchanting age her figure seems. 
When smiling nature Avith the vital beams 
Of vivid youth, and Pleasure's purple flame, 
Gilds her accomplish'd work, the female frame, 
'With rich luxuriance tender, sweetly wild. 
And just between the woman and the child. 
Her fair left arm around a vase she flings. 
From which the tender plant mimosa springs; 
Towards its leaves, o'er which she fondly bends. 
The youthful fair her vacant hand extends 
With gentle motion, anxious to survey 
How far the feeling fibres owti her sway; 
The leaves, as conscious of their Queen's command, 
Successive fall at her approaching hand; 
While her soft breast with pity seems to pant. 
And shrinks at every shrinking of the plant. 

Around their sovereign, on the verdant ground, 
Sweet airy forms in mystic measures bound. 
Unnumber'd damsels different charms display, 
Pensive with bliss, or in their pleasures gay. 
But, the bright triumphs of their joy to check, 
In the clear air there hangs a dusky speck ; 
It swells — it spreads — and rapid, as it grows. 
O'er the gay scene a chilling shadow throws. 
The soft Serena, who beheld its flight, 
Suspects no evil from a cloud so light; 

22 



HAYLEY. 

But, ah ! too soon, with pity's tender pain. 
She saw its dire effect o'er all the plain : 
Sudden from thence the sounds of anguish flow, 
And joy's sweet carols end in shrieks of woe. 
Here gloomy Terror, with a shadowy rope, 
Seems, like a Turkish mute, to strangle Hope. 
But pangs more cruel, more intensely keen. 
Wound and distract their sympathetic Queen. 
\Vith fruitless tears she o'er their misery bends ; 
From her sweet brow the thorny rose she rends, 
And, bow'd by griefs insufferable Aveight, 
Frantic she curses her immortal sta,te : 
The soft Sei-enn, as this curse she hears. 
Feels her bright eye suffiis'd with kindred tears. 

The guardian Poavek survcy'd her lovely grief, 
And spoke in gentle terms of mild relief: 
'• For this soft tribe they heaviest fear dismiss, 
And know their pains are transient as their bliss: 
Kapture and agony, in Nature's loom. 
Have form'd the changing tissue of their doom; 
Both interwoven with so nice an art. 
No power can tear the twisted threads apart ; 
Yet happier these, to Nature's heart more dear, 
Than the dull offspring in the torpid sphere, 
Where her warm wishes, and affections kind, 
Lose their bright current in the stagnant mind. 
Here grief and joy so suddenly unite. 
That anguish serves to sublimate delight." 

She spoke ; and, ere Serena could reply. 
The vapour vanish'd from the lucid sky, 
The nymphs revive, the shadowy fiends are fled, 
The new-born floAvers a richer fragrance shed, — 
While on the lovely Queen's enchanting face. 
Departed sorrow's faint and fainter trace 
Gave to each touching charm a more attractive ffiace. 



23 




HUEDIS. 

RURAL SOUNDS. 

Be nothing heard. 
Save the far-distant murmur of tlie dcoi) 
24 



HURDIS. 

Or the near grasshopper's incessant note, 
That snug beneath the wall in comfort sits. 
And chii'ping imitates the silvery chink 
Of wages told into the ploughman's pahii — 
Or gentle curlew bidding kind good night 
To the spent villager, or ere his hand 
The cottage taper quencli — or grazing ox 
His dewy supper from the savoury hei-b 
Audibly gathering — or cheerful hind 
From the lov'd harvest feast returning home. 
Whistling at intervals some rustic air. 

Such rural sovnids. 
If haply notic'd by the musing mind, 
Sweet interruption yield, and thrice improve 
The solemn luxury of idle thought. 
If not abroad I sit, but sip at home 
The cheering beverage of fading eve, 
By some fair hand, or ere it reach the lip. 
With mingled flavour tinctur'd of the cane 
And Asiatic leaf, let the mute flock, 
As from the window studious looks mine eye, 
Steal fold-ward nibbling o'er the shado^^y down- 
Let the reluctant milch-kine of the farm 
Wend slowly from the pasture to the pail. 
Let the glad ox, unyok'd, make haste to field, 
And the stout wain-horse, of encumbrance sti'ipt, 
Shake his enoi'mous limbs with blund'ring speed, 
Eager to gratify his famish'd lip 
With taste of herbage and the meado^v-brook. 



25 




CHARLOTTE SMITH. 



THE SWALLOW. 



The gorse is yellow on the heath, 

The banks mth speedwell flowers are gay, 
The oaks are bnclding; and beneath, 
The ha-wthorn soon will bear the WTeath, 
The silver wreath of May. 
26 



CHARLOTTE SMITH. 

Tlie welcome guest of settled Spring, 
The Swallow, too, is come at last ; 
Just at sunset, when thrushes sing, 
I saw her dash with rapid wing, 
And hail'd her as she pass'd. 

Come, summer visitant, attach 

To my reed-roof your nest of clay, 
And let my ear your music catch, 
Low twittering underneath the thatch, 
At the grey dawn of day. 

As fables tell, an Indian Sage, 

The Hindustani woods among, 
Could in his desert hermitage. 
As if 'twere mark'd in written page. 

Translate the wild bird's song. 

I wish I did his poAver possess, 

That I might learn, fleet bird, from thee. 
What our vain systems only guess, 
And know from what wild wilderness 

You came across the sea. 

[ would a little while restrain 

Your rapid wing, that I might hear 
Whether on clouds that bring the rain. 
You sail'd above the westei*n main, 
The wind your charioteer. 

In Afric, does the sultry gale, 

Through spicy bower, and palmy grove. 
Bear the repeated Cuckoo's tale? 
Dwells there a time, the wandering Eail, 

Or the itinerant Dove? 
27 



THE SWALLO\\'. 

AV'^erc you in Asia? O relate, 
If there your fabled sister's woes 

She seem'd in sorrow to narrate ; 

Or sings she bvit to celebrate 
Her nuptials with the rose? 

I would inquire how, journeying long 
The vast and pathless ocean o'er. 

You ply again those pinions strong, 

And come to build anew among 
The scenes you left before ; 

But if, as cooler breezes blow, 

Pro[)hetic of the waning year, 
You hide, though none know when or hoAV. 
In the clifFs excavated brow, 

And luiger torpid here ; 

Thus lost to life, Avhat favouring dream 

Bids you to happier hours awake ; 
And tells, that dancing in the beam. 
The light gnat hovers o'er the stream, 
The May-fly on the lake? 

Or if, by instinct taught to know 

Approaching dearth of insect food. 
To isles and willowy aits you go. 
And crowding on the pliant bough. 
Sink in the dimpling flood : 

How learn ye, while the cold waves boom 
Y'our deep and oosy couch above. 

The time when flowers of promise bloom. 

And call you from your transient tomb. 
To light, and life, and love ? 
28 



CHAKLOTTE SMITH. 

Alas! how little can be known, 

Her sacred veil where Nature draws 
Let baffled Science humbly own, 
Her mysteries understood alone 
By Him avIio gives her laws. 



SONNET WRITTEN AT THE CLOSE OF SPRING. 



The garlands fade that Spring so lately wove, 

Each simple flower, which she had nurs'd in dew, 
Anemones, that spangled every grove, 

The primrose wan, and harebell mildly blue. 
No more shall violets linger in the dell. 

Or purple orchis variegate the plain, 
'Jill Spring again shall call forth every bell, 

And dress with humid hands her A\Tcaths again. 

Ah, poor Iiumanity! so frail, so fair, 
Are the fond %isions of thy early day. 

Till t}Tant passion, and corrosive care. 
Bid all thy tairy colours fade aAvay ! 

Another May new buds and flowers shall bi-ing : 
Ah ! why has happiness no second spring ? 



2J) 



SONNETS. 



SONNET. 



Should the lone wanderer, fainting on his waj, 

Rest for a moment of the sultry hours, 
And, thongli his path through thorns and roughness lay. 

Pluck the wild rose or woodbine's gadding flowers, 
Wearing gay ^\Teaths beneath some sheltering tree, 

The sense of sorrow he awhile may lose; 
So have I sought thy flowers, fair Poesy! 

So charm' d my way with Friendship and the Muse. 

But darker now grows life's unhappy day. 
Dark with new clouds of evil yet to come. 

Her pencil, sickening. Fancy throws away. 
And weary Hope reclines upon the tomb, 

And points my wishes to that tranquil shore, 

Where the pale spectre Care pursues no more. 



SONNET ON THE DEPARTURE OF THE NIGHTINGALE. 

Sweet poet of the woods, a long adieu! 

Farewell, soft minstrel of the early year! 
Ah! 'twill be long ere thou shalt sing anew, 

And pour thy music on the night's dull ear. 
Whether on Spring, thy wandering flights await. 

Or whether silent in our groves you dwell. 
The pensive Muse shall ovm thee for her mate. 

And still protect the song she loves so well. 

With cautious step the love-lorn youth shall glide 
Thro' the lone brake that shades thy mossy nesl ; 

And shepherd-girls from eyes profane shall hide 
The gentle bird, who sings of pity best: 

For still thy voice shall soft aflfections move. 
And still be dear to sorrow, and to love! 
30 




FROM " BEACHY HEAD." 



I ONCE was happy, when, Avhile yet a child 
I learn'd to love these upland solitudes. 
And when, elastic as the mountain air, 
To my light spirit care was yet unknown, 
And evil unforeseen : — early it came, 
31 



FROM "BEACHY HEAD." 

And cliildliood scarcely past, I Avas condemu'd, 

A guiltless exile, silently to sigh, 

\\Tiile Memory, with faithful pencil, drew 

The contrast ; and regrettmg, I comjDar'd 

With the polluted smoky atmosphere 

And dark and stifling streets, the southern hills, 

That, to the setting sun their graceful heads 

Ivearing, o'erlook the frith, where Vecta breaks 

With her white rocks the strong impetuous tide, 

\Vlien western winds the vast Atlantic urge 

To thmider on the coast. Haunts of my youth! 

Scenes of fond day-dreams, I behold ye yet ! 

Where 'twas so pleasant by thy northern slopes 

To climb the winding sheep-path, aided oft 

By scatter'd thorns ; whose spring branches bore 

Small woolly tufts, spoils of the vagrant lamb 

There seeking shelter from the noonday sun : 

-Vnd pleasant, seated on the short soft turf 

To look beneath upon the hollow way 

^Vliile heavily upward mov'd the labouring wain, 

And stalking slowly by, the sturdy hind. 

To ease his panting team, stopp'd with a stone 

The grating wheel. 

Advancing higher still. 
The prospect widens, and the village cliurch 
But little, o'er the lowly roofs around, 
Rears its grey belfry, and its simple vane ; 
Those loiA'ly roofs of thatch are half conceal'd 
By the rude arms of trees, lovely in Spring, 
AMien on each bough the rosy tinctur'd bloom 
Sits thick, and promises autumnal plenty. 
For even those orchards round the Norman farms, 
Which, as their owners mark the promis'd^ fruit. 
Console them for the vineyards of the South, 
Surpass not these. 

Wliere woods of ash, and beech, 
And partial copses, fringe the green hill foot, 
32 



CHAELOTTE SMITH. 

The upland shepherd rears his modest home ; 

There wanders by a little nameless stream 

That from the hill wells forth, bright now and clear, 

Or after rain with chalky mixture grey. 

But still refreshing; in its shallow course 





The cottage garden ; most for use design' d, 
Yet not of beauty destitute. The vine 
Mantles the little casement ; yet the briar 
Drops fragrant dew among the July flowers ; 
And pansies ray'd, and freak'd and mottled pinks 
33 



FROM "BEACHY HEAD." 

Grow among balm, and rosemary and rue ; 

There honeysuckles flaunt, and roses blow 

Almost uncultui"'d : some with dark green leaves 

Contrast their flowers of pure unsullied Avhite ; 

Others like velvet robes of regal state 

Of richest crimson ; Avhile, ui thorny moss 

Enshrin'd and cradled, the most lovely wear 

The hues of youthful beauty's glowing cheek. — 

With fond regret I recollect e'en now 

In Spring and Summer what delight I felt 

Among these cottage gardens, and how much 

Such artless nosegays, knotted with a rush 

By village housewife or her ruddy maid. 

Were Avelcome to me ; soon and simply pleas'd, 

An early worshipper at Nature's shrine, 

I lov'd her rudest scenes — warrens, and heaths, 

And yellow commons, and bu'ch-shaded hollows, 

And hedgerows, bordering unfrequented lanes 

Bower'd with wild roses, and the clasping woodbine. 

Where purple tassels of the tangling vetch 

With bittersweet and bryony iuM'eave, 

And the dew fills the silver bindweed's cups — 

1 lov'd to trace the brooks whose humid banks 

Nourish the harebell, and the freckled pagU ; 

And stroll among o'ershadowing woods of beech. 

Lending in Summer from the heats of noon 

A wh"?pering shade ; whUe haply there reclines 

Some pensive lover of uncultur'd flowers, 

Who from the tumps, with bright green mosses clad. 

Plucks the wood sorrel with its light thin leaves, 

Ileart-shap'd, and triply-folded, and its root 

Creeping like beaded coral ; or who there 

Gathers, the copse's pride, anemones, 

With rays like golden studs on ivory laid 

Most delicate : but touch'd with purple clouds. 

Fit crown for April's fair but changeful brow. 



34 



ANNA SEWAED. 



SONG. 



From thy waves, stormy Lannow, I fly ; 
From the rocks, that are lash'd by their tide ; 
From the maid, whose cold bosom, relentless as they, 
Has wreck'd my warm hopes by her pride ! — 
Yet lonely and rude as the scene, 
Her smile to that scene could impart 
A charm, that might rival the bloom of the vale — 
But away, thou fond dream of my heart ! 
From thy rocks, stormy Lannow, I fly! 

Now the blasts of the winter come on, 

And the Avaters grow dark as they rise ! 

But 'tis well ! they resemble the sullen disdain 

That has lour'd in those insolent eyes. 

Sincere were the sighs they represt. 

But they rose in the days that are floviTi ! 

Ah, nymph! unrelenting and cold as thou art, 

My spirit is proud as thine 0A\ai. 

From thy rocks, stormy Lannow, I fly! 

Lo! the wings of the sea-fowl are spread 
To escape the loud storm by their flight ; 
And these caves will afford them a gloomy retreat 
From the winds and the billows of night ; 
Like them, to the home of my youth. 
Like them, to its shades I retire ; 
Receive me, and shield my vex'd spirit, ye groves, 
From the pangs of insulted desire ! 
To thy rocks, stormy Lannow, adieu ! 
35 



DARWIN. 

MARCH OF CAMBYSES. 

When Heaven's dread justice smites in crimes o'ergrown 

The blood-nurs'd tyrant on his purple throne, 

Gnomes! your bold forms unn umber' d arms outstretch, 

And urge the vengeance o'er the guilty wi-etch. 

Thus when Cambyses led his barbarous hosts 

From Persia's rocks to Egypt's trembling coasts, 

Defiled each hallow'd fane, and sacred wood, 

And, drunk with fury, swell'd the Nile with blood ; 

Wav'd his proud banner o'er the Theban states. 

And pour'd destruction through her hundred gates ; 

In dread divisions march'd the marshall'd bands, 

And swarming armies blacken' d all the lands, 

By Memphis these to Ethiop's sultry plains. 

And' those to Ammon's sand-encircled fanes. 

Slow as they pass'd the indignant temples frown'd. 

Low curses muttering from the vaulted ground ; 

Long aisles of cypress wav'd their deepen'd glooms, 

And quivering spectres grinn'd amid the tombs ; 

Prophetic whispers breath'd from Sphinx's tongue, 

And Memnon's lyre with hollow murmurs rung ; 

Burst from each pyramid expiring groans, 

And darker shadows stretch'd their lengthen'd cones. 

Day after day their dreadful rout they steer. 

Lust in the van, and rapine in the rear. 

Gnomes! as they march'd, you hid the gather'd fruits, 
The bladed grass, sweet grains, and mealy roots ; 
Scar'd the tired quails, that journey o'er their heads, 
Eetain'd the locusts in their earthy beds ; 
Bade on your sands no night-born dews distil, 
Stay'd with vindictive hands the scanty rill. 
Loud o'er the camp the fiend of Famine shrieks. 
Calls all her brood, and champs her hundred beaks; 

36 



DARWIN. 

O'er ten square leagues her pennons broad expand, 
And twilight swims upon the shuddering sand ; 
Perch'd on her crest the griffin Discord clings, 
And giant Murder rides between her wings ; 
Blood from each clotted hair, and horny quill, 
And showers of tears in blended streams distil ; 
High pois'd in air her spiry neck she bends, 
Rolls her keen eye, her dragon-claws extends, 
Darts from above, and tears at each fell swoop 
With iron fangs the decimated troop. 

Now o'er their head the whizzing whirlwinds breathe, 
And the live desert pants, and heaves beneath ; 
Tinged by the crimson sun, vast columns rise 
Of eddpng sands, and war amid the skies, 
Li red arcades the billowy plain surround. 
And whii'ling turrets stalk along the ground. 
— Long ranks in vain their shining blades extend, 
To demon-gods their knees unhallow'd bend. — 
Wheel in wide circle, form in hollow square, 
And now tlicy front, and now they fly the war, 
Pierce the deaf tempest with lamenting cries. 
Press their parch'd lips, and close their bloodshot eyes. 
— Gnomes ! o'er the waste you led your myriad powers, 
Climb'd on the whirls, and aim'd the flinty showers! 
Onward resistless rolls the infuriate surge. 
Clouds follow clouds, and mountains mountains urge ; 
Wave over Avave the driving desert swims. 
Bursts o'er their lieads, inhumes their struggling limbs ; 
Man mounts on man, on camels camels rush, 
Hosts march o'er hosts, and nations nations crush, — 
Wheeling in air the winged islands foil, 
And one great earthy ocean covers all ! — 
Then ceased the storm, — Night bow'd his Ethiop brow 
To earth, and listcn'd to the groans below, — 
Grim Horror shook, — awhile the living hill 
Heaved Avith convulsive throes, — and all was still! 

37 



ANTIQUE GEMS. 
THREE IMPRESSIONS OF ANTIQUE GEMS. 

THE EAGLE. 

So, when with bristling plumes the bird of Jove 
Vindictive leaves the argent fields above, 
Borne on broad wings the guilty world he awes, 
And grasps the lightning in his shining claws. 

THE CHILD SLEEPING. 

No voice so sweet attunes his cares to rest, 

So soft no pillow as his mother's breast ! — 

— Thus charm'd to sweet repose, when twilight hours 

Shed their soft influence on celestial bowers, 

The Cherub Innocence, with smile divine. 

Shuts his white wings, and sleeps on Beauty's shrine. 

LOVE RIDIXG ON THE LIOX. 

So playful Love on Ida's flowery sides 
With ribbon-rein the indignant lion guides ; 
Pleased on his brindled back the lyi-e he rings. 
And shakes delirious rapture from the strings ; 
Slow as the pausing monarch stalks along. 
Sheaths his retractile claws, and drinks the song, 
Soft nymphs on timid step the triumph view, 
And listening faAvns with beating hoofs pursue; 
With pointed ears the alarmed forest starts, 
And love and music soften savage hearts. 



38 




TASTE 

If the wide eye tlie wavy lawns explores, 
The bending woodlands, or the winding shores, 
Hills, whose green sides with soft protuberance rise, 
Or the blue concave of the vaulted skies ; — 
Or scans with nicer gaze the pearly swell 
Of spiral volutes round the twisted shell ; 
Or undulating sweep, whose graceful turns 
Bound the smooth surface of Etrurian urns, 
When on fine forms the waving lines impress'd 
Give the nice curves, which swell the female breast 
The countless joys the tender mother pours 
Round the soft cradle of our infant hours. 
In. lively trains of unextinct delight 
Rise in our bosoms recognised by sight ; 
Fond Fancy's eye recals the form divine. 
And Taste sits smiling upon Beauty's shrme. 



Where Egypt's pyi-amids gigantic stand, 
And stretch their shadows o'er the shuddering sand : 
Or where high rocks, o'er ocean's dashing floods. 
Wave high in air their panoply of woods ; 



TASTE. 

Admiring Taste delights to stray beneath 
With eye uplifted, and forgets to breathe ; 
Or, as aloft his daring footsteps climb. 
Crests their high summits with his arm sublime. 

Wliere mouldermg columns mark the lingering wreck 

Of Thebes, Palmyra, Babylon, Balbec ; 

The prostrate obelisk, or shatter'd dome, 

Uprooted pedestal, and yawning tomb. 

On loitering steps reflective Taste surveys 

With folded arms and sympathetic gaze ; 

Charm'd with poetic Melancholy treads 

O'er ruin'd tovras and desolated meads ; 

Or rides sublime on Time's expanded wings, 

And views the fate of ever-changing things. 

When Beauty's streaming eyes her woes exj)ress, 
Or Virtue braves unmerited distress ; 
Love sighs in sympathy, with pain combin'd. 
And new-born Pity charms the kindred mind ; 
The enamour'd Sorrow every cheek bedews, 
And Taste impassion'd avoos the tragic Muse. 

The rush-thatch'd cottage on the purple moor, 
Where ruddy children frolic round the door, 
The moss-groAvn antlers of the aged oak. 
The shaggy locks that fringe the colt unbroke. 
The bearded goat with nimble eyes, that glare 
Through the long tissue of his hoary hair, 
As with quick foot he climbs some ruin'd wall 
And crops the ivy, which prevents its fall ; 
With, rural charms the tranquil mind delight. 
And form a picture to th' admiring sight. 
While Taste with pleasure bends his eye surpris'd 
In modern days at Nature unchastis'd. 



40 



#f^^.^^^ 




CEOWE. 

LEWESDON HILL. 

How changed is thy appearance, beauteous Hill ! 
Thou hast put off thy wintiy garb, brown heath 
And russet fern, thy seemly-colour'd cloak. 
To bide the hoaiy frosts and dripping rains 
41 



LEWESDON HILL. 

Of chill December, and art gaily robed 

In livery of the spring : upon thy brow 

A cap of flowery hawthorn, and thy neck 

Mantled with new-sprung furze and spangles thick 

Of golden bloom ; nor lack thee tufted woods 

Adown thy sides : tall oaks of lusty green, 

The darker fir, light ash, and the nesh tops 

Of the young hazel join, to form thy skirts 

In many a wavy fold of verdant wreath: 

So gorgeously hath Nature drest thee up 

Against the birth of May; and, vested so, 

Thou dost appear more gracefully array'd 

Than fashion-mongering fops, whose gaudy shows, 

Fantastical as are a sick man's dreams. 

From vanity to costly vanity 

Change ofter than the moon. Thy comely dress. 

From sad to gay returning with the year. 

Shall grace thee still till Nature's self shall change, 

These are the beauties of thy woodland scene 
At each return of Spring : yet some delight 
Rather to view the change ; and fondly gaze 
On fading colours, and the thousand tints 
Wliich Autumn lays upon the varying leaf: 
I like them not, for all their boasted hues 
Are kin to sickliness ; mortal decay 
Is drinking up their vital juice ; that gone, 
They turn to sear and yellow. Should I praise 
Such false complexions, and for beauty take 
A look consumption-bred'? As soon, if grey 
Were mixt in young Louisa's tresses brown, 
I'd call it beautiful variety. 
And therefore doat on her. Yet I can spy 
A beauty in that fruitful change, when comes 
The yellow Autumn, and the hopes o' the yeai" 
Brings on to golden ripeness ; nor dispraise 
The pure and spotless form of that sharp time, 
42 



CROWE. 

When January spreads a pall of snow 

O'er the dead face of th' undisthiguish'd earth. 

Then stand I in the hollow comb beneath, 

And bless this friendly mount, that weather-fends 

My reed-roof'd cottage, while the wintry blast 

From the thick North comes howling; till the Spring 

Return, who leads my devious steps abroad. 

To climb, as now, to Lewesdon's airy top. 

From this proud eminence on all sides round 
Th' unbroken prospect opens to my view, 
On all sides large ; save only where the head 
Of Fillesdon rises, Fillesdon's lofty Fen : 
So call (still rendering to his ancient name 
Observance due) that rival Height south-west, 
Which, like a rampire, bounds the vale beneath. 
There woods, there blooming orchards, there are seen 
Herds ranging, or at rest beneath the shade 
Of some wide-branching oak; there goodly fields 
Of corn, and verdant pasture, whence the kine, 
Eeturning with their milky treasure home, 
Store the rich dairy; such fair plenty fills 
The pleasant vale of Marshwood, pleasant now, 
Since that the Spring hath deck'd anew the meads 
With flowery vesture, and the warmer sun 
Their foggy moistness drain' d ; in wintry days 
Cold, vapourish, miry, wet, and to the flocks 
Unfriendly, when autumnal rains begin 
To drench the spungy turf; but ere that time 
The careful shepherd moves to healthier soil, 
Rechasing, lest his tender ewes should coath 
In the dank pasturage. Yet not the fields 
Of Evesham, nor that ample valley named 
Of the White Horse, its antique monument 
Carved in the chalky bourne, for beauty and wealtli 
Might equal, though surpassing in extent, 
This fertile vale, in length from Lewesdon's base 
43 



LEWESDON HILL. 

Extended to the sea, and water'd well 

By many a rill ; but chief Avith thy clear stream, 

Thou nameless Eivulet, who, from the side 

Of Lewesdon softly welling forth, dost trip 

Adown the valley, wandering sj^ortively. 







Alas! how soon thy little course will end! 
How soon thy infant stream shall lose itself 
In the salt mass of waters, ere it grow 
To name or greatness! Yet it flows along 
Untainted with the commerce of the world. 
44 



CROWE. 

Nor passing by the noisy haunts of men ; 
But through sequester'd meads, a little space, 
Winds secretly, and in its Avanton path 
May cheer some drooping flower, or minister 
Of its cool water to the thirsty lamb : 
Then falls into the ravenous sea, as pure 
As when it issued from its native hill. 

How is it vanish'd in a hasty spleen, 
The Tor of Glastonbury! Even but now 
I saw the hoary pile cresting the top 
Of that north-western hill ; and in this Now 
A cloud hath pass'd on it, and its dim bulk 
Becomes annihilate, or if not, a spot 
Which the strain'd vision tires itself to find. 
And even so fares it with the things of earth 
Wliich seem most constant: there will come the cloud 
That shall enfold them up, and leave their place 
A seat for Emptiness. Our narrow ken 
Reaches too far, when all that we behold 
Is but the havoc of wide-wasting Time, 
Or what he soon shall spoil. His out-spread wings 
(Which bear him like an eagle o'er the earth) 
Are plumed in front so dowiiy soft, they seem 
To foster what they touch, and mortal fools 
Rejoice beneath their hovering: Woe the while! 
For in that indefatigable flight 
The multitudinous strokes incessantly 
Bruise all beneath their cope, and mark on all 
His secret injury : on the front of man 
Grey hairs and -OTinkles ; still as Time speeds on, 
Hard and more hard his iron pennons beat 
With ceaseless violence; nor overpass, 
TUl all the creatures of this nether world 
Are one wide quarry; following dark behind, 
The cormorant Oblivion swallows up 
Tlie carcases that Time has made his prey. 
45 



LEWESDON HILL. 

But hark ! the village clock strikes nine — the chimes 

Merrily follow, tuneful to the sense 

Of the pleased clown attentive, while they make 

False-measured melody on crazy bells. 

O wondrous power of modulated sound ! 

Which, like the air, (whose all-obedient shape 

Thou mak'st thy slave,) canst subtilly pervade 

The yielded avenues of sense, vuilock 

The close affections, by some fairy path 

Winning an easy way through every ear, 

And with thine unsubstantial quality 

Holding in mighty chains the hearts of all ; 

All, but some cold and sullen-temper'd spirits 

Who feel no touch of sympathy, or love. 

Yet what is music, and the blended power 

Of voice with instruments of wind and string? 

What but an empty pageant of sweet noise ! 

'Tis past ; and all that it has left behind 

Is but an echo dwelling in the ear 

Of the toy-taken fancy, and beside, 

A void and countless hour in life's brief day. 

Now I descend 
To join the worldly crowd ; perchance to talk. 
To think, to act as they : then all these thoughts, 
That lift th' expanded heart above this spot 
To heavenly musing, these shall pass away, 
(Even as this goodly prospect from my view,) 
Hidden by near and earthy-rooted cares. 
So passeth human life — our better mind 
Is as a Sunday's garment, then put on 
When we have nought to do ; but at our work 
We wear a worse for thrift. 



46 












0:f />! 







^''■■y^'^ys^e^'-- 



PEKCY. 

THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY. 

It Avas a friar of orders gray 
Walkt forth to tell his beades; 
47 



THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY. 

And he met -wdth a lady faii'e 
Clad in a pilgrime's weedes. 

"Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar, 

I pray thee tell to me, 
If ever at yon holy shrine 

My true love thou didst see?"' 

"And how should I know your true love 

From many another one?" 
"O, by his cockle hat, and staff, 

And by his sandal shoone ; 

"But chiefly by his face and mien, 

That were so fau* to view ; 
His flaxen locks that sweetly curl'd. 

And eyne of lovely blue." 

" lady, he is dead and gone ! 

Lady, he's dead and gone ! 
And at his head a green grass turfe, 

And at his heels a stone. 

" Within these holy cloysters long 

He languisht, and he dyed, 
Lamenting of a ladye's love, 

And 'playning of her pride. 

" Here bore him barefaced on his bier 

Six proper youths and tall. 
And many a tear bedew'd his grave 

Within yon kirk-yard wall." 

"And art thou dead, thou gentle youth, 

And art thou dead and gone ! 
And didst thou dye for love of me ! 

Break, cruel heart of stone !" 

48 



PERCY. 

" O weep not, lady, weep not soe : 

Some ghostly comfort seek : 
Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart, 

Ne teares bedew thy cheek." 

"O do not, do not, holy friar. 

My sorrow now reprove ; 
For I have lost the sweetest youth 

That e'er won ladye's love. 

" And nowe, alas ! for thy sad losse, 

I'll evermore weep and sigh: 
For thee I only wisht to live. 

For thee I wish to dye." 

" Weep no more, lady, weep no more, 

Thy sorrowe is in vaine : 
For violets pluckt the sweetest showers 

Will ne'er make gi-ow againe. 

" Our joys as winged dreams doe flye ; 

Why, then, should sorrow last? 
.Since grief but aggravates thy losse, 

Grieve not for what is past." 

'' O say not soe, thou holy l"i itir ; 

I pray thee, say not soe : 
For since my true-love dyed for mee, 

'Tis meet my teares should flow. 

" And will he never come again ? 

Will he ne'er come again ? 
Ah ! no, he is dead and laid in his grave, 

For ever to remain. 

" His cheek was redder than the rose ; 
The comeliest youth Avas he ! 
40 



THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY. 

But he is dead and laid in his grave : 
Alas ! and woe is me !" 

" Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more, 

Men were deceivers ever : 
One foot on sea and one on land, 

To one thing constant never. 

"Hadst thou been fond, he had been false. 

And left thee sad and heavy; 
For young men ever were fickle found. 

Since summer trees were leafy." 

"Now say not soe, thou holy friar. 

I pray thee say not soe ; 
My love he had the truest heart : 

O he was ever true ! 

"And art thou dead, thou much-lov'd youth. 

And didst thou dye for mee ? 
Then farewell home ; for evermore 

A pilgrim I will bee. 

"But first upon my true-love's grave 

My weary limbs I'll lay. 
And thrice I'll kiss the green grass-turf 

That ^\Taps his breathless clay." 

" Yet stay, fair lady : rest awhile 

Beneath this cloyster wall : 
See through the hawthorn blows the cold wind, 

And drizzly rain doth fall." 

"O stay me not, thou holy friar; 

O stay me not, I pray; 
No drizzly rain that falls on me 

Can wash my fault away." 



PERCY. 

" Yet stay, fair lady, turn again. 

And dry those pearly tears ; 
For see beneath this gown of gray 

Thy ovrae true-love appears. 

"Here, forc'd by grief, and hopeless love, 

These holy weeds I sought ; 
And here amid these lonely A\alls 

To end my days I thought. 

" But haply, for my year of grace 

Is not yet pass'd away, 
Might I still hope to win thy lo^e. 

No longer would I stay." 

"Now farewell gi'ief, and Avelcome joy 

Once more unto my heart ; 
For since I've found thee, lovely j'outh, 

We never more will part." 



GENTLE RIVER. 

Gentle river, gentle river, 

Lo, thy streams are stain'd with gore. 
Many a brave and noble captain 

Floats along thy willow' d shore. 

All beside thy limpid waters. 
All beside thy sands so bright, 

Moorish Chiefs and Christian Warrior.-^ 
Join'd in fierce and mortal fight. 
.-.I 



GENTLE RIVER. 

J.ords, and dukes, and noble princes, 
On thy fatal banks were slain : 

Fatal banks, that gave to slaughter 
All the pride and flower of Spain. 

There the hero, l>rave Alonzo, 
Full of wounds and glory, died : 

There the fearless Urdiales 
Fell a victim by his side. 

I.o! where yonder Don Saavedra 
Through their squadrons slow retires 

Proud Seville, his native city, 

Troud Seville his worth admires. 



(lose behind, a rencgado 

Loudly shouts with taunting cry : 
" Yield thee, yield thee, Don Saavedra ; 

Dost thou from the battle fly? 

" Well I know tliee, haughty Christian, 
Long I liv'd Ijeiieath thy roof; 

Ott I've in the lists of glory 

Seen thee win the prize of pi'oof. 

"Well I know thy aged parents, 
Well thy blooming Ijride I know ; 

Seven years I was thy captive. 
Seven years of pain :uid woe. 

"May our Prophet grant my wishes. 
Haughty Chief, thou slialt be mine ; 

Thou shalt drink that cup of sorrow, 
Which T drank when I was thine." 




Like i\ lion turns tlie warrior 
Buck he sends an angry glare: 

Wlii/./.ing came the Moorish javelin. 
V:iinly whizzing through the air. 
53 



GENTLE RIVER. 

]>ack the hero, full of fury, 

Sent a deep and mortal wound : 

Instant sunk the Renegado, 

Mute and lifeless on the ground. 

With a thousand Moors surrounded, 
Brave Saavedra stands at bay: 

Wearied out, but never daunted, 
Cold at length the warrior lay. 

Near him fighting, great Alonzo 
Stout resists the Paynim bands; 

From his slaughter'd steed dismounted 
Firm intrench'd behind him stands. 

Furious press the hostile squadron, 
Furious he repels their rage: 

Loss of blood at length enfeebles : 
Who can war with thousands wage ! 

Where yon rock the plain o'ershadows, 
Close beneath its foot retir'd. 

Fainting, sunk the bleeding hero, 
And without a groan expir'd. 




CRABBE. 

A GIPSY ENCAMPMENT. 

Again, the country was enclosed, a wide 
And sandy road has banks on either side ; 
Where, lo ! a hollow on the left appear'd, 
And there a Gijisy tribe their tent had rear'd 



A GIPSY ENCAMPMENT. 

'Twas open spread, to catch the morning sun, 
And they had now their early meal begun, 
When two brown boys just left their grassy seal. 
The early Trav'ller with their prayers to greet : 
While yet Orlando held his pence in hand, 
He saw their sister on her duty stand ; 
Some twelve years old, demure, affected, si}'. 
Prepared the force of early powers to try ; 
Sudden a look of languor he descries, 
And well-feign'd apprehension in her eyes ; 
Train'd, but yet savage, in her speaking face 
He mark'd the features of her vagrant race ; 
When a light laugh and roguish leer express'd 
The vice implanted in her youthful breast : 
Forth from the tent her elder brother came. 
Who seem'd offended, yet forbore to blame 
The young designer, but could only trace 
The looks of pity in the Trav'ller' s face : 
Within, the Father, who from fences nigh 
Hud brought the fuel for the fire's suppl}, 
Watch'd now the feeble blaze, and stood dejectcil 1)} . 
On ragged rug, just borrow'd from the bed, 
And by the hand of coarse indulgence fed, 
In dirty patchwork negligently dress'd, 
Reclin'd the Wife, an infant at her breast; 
In her wild face some touch of grace remain'tl, 
Of vigour palsied and of beauty stain'd ; 
Her bloodshot eyes on her unheeding mate 
Were ^Tathful tui'u'd, and seem'd her wants to state, 
Cursing his tardy aid — her Mother there 
With gipsy-state engross'd the only chair ; 
Solemn and dull her look ; with such she stands 
And reads the milk-maid's fortune in her hands, 
Tracing the lines of life ; assum'd through years, 
Each feature now the steady flilsehood wears ; 
With hard and savage eye she views the food. 
And grudging pinches their intruding brood. 
nc, 



CRABBE. 

Last in the group, the worn-out Grandsire sits, 
Neglected, lost, and living but by fits: 
Useless, despis'd, his worthless labours done. 
And half protected by the vicious Son, 
Who half supports him ; he with heavy glance 
Mews the young ruffians who around him dance; 
And, by the sadness in his face, appears 
To trace the progress of their future years : 
Through what strange course of misery, vice, deceit, 
Must wildly wander each unpractis'd cheat ! 
AYliat shame and grief, what punishment and pain, 
Sport of fierce passions, must each child sustain — 
Ere they like him approach their latter end, 
Without a hope, a comfort, or a friend ! 



MARINE VIEWS. 

Be it the Summer-noon : a sandy space 
The ebbing tide has left upon its place; 
Then just the hot and stony beach above. 
Light twinkling streams in bright confusion move 
(For heated thus, the warmer air ascends, 
And with the cooler in its fall contends) — 
Then the broad bosom of the ocean keeps 
An equal motion ; swelling as it sleeps, 
Then slowly sinking; curling to the strand. 
Faint, lazy waves o'erci-eep the rigid sand, 
Or tap the tarry boat with gentle blow. 
And back return in silence, smooth and slow. 
57 



MAEINE VIEWS. 

Sliif)S in the calm seem anchor'd ; for they glide 

On the still sea, urg'd solely by the tide : 

Art thon not present, this calm scene before, 

Where all beside is pebbly length of shore, 

And far as eye can reach, it can discern no more ? 

Yet sometimes comes a ruffling cloud to make 
The quiet surface of the ocean shake ; 
As an awaken'd giant with a frown 
Might show his wrath, and then to sleep sink down. 

View now the Winter-storm ! above, one cloud. 
Black and unbroken, all the skies o'ershroud : 
Th' unwieldy porpoise through the day before, 
Had roll'd in view of boding men on shore ; 
And sometimes hid and sometimes show'd his form. 
Dark as the cloud, and furious as the storm. 

All where the eye delights, yet dreads, to roam, 
The breaking bUlows cast the flying foam 
Upon the billows rising — all the deep 
Is restless change ; the waves so swell'd and steep. 
Breaking and sinking, and the sunken swells, 
Nor one, one moment, in its station dwells : 
But nearer land you may the billows trace, 
As if contending in their watery chase ; 
May watch the mightiest till the shoal they reach. 
Then break and hurry to their utmost stretch ; 
Curl'd as they come, they strike with furious force. 
And then, re-flowing, take their grating course. 
Baking the rounded flints, which ages past 
KoU'd by their rage, and shall to ages last 

Far off the Petrel in the troubled way 
Swims with her brood, or flutters in the spray ; 
She rises often, often drops again, 
And sports at ease on the tempestuous main. 

High o'er the restless deep, above the reach 
Of gunner's hope, vast flocks of Wild-ducks stretch ; 
Far as the eye can glance on either side. 
In a broad space and level line they glide ; 





All ill their wedge-like figures from the north, 
Day after clay, flight after flight, go forth. 

In-shore their passage tribes of sea-gulls urge, 
And drop for prey within the sweeping surge ; 
Oft in the rough opposing blast they fly 
Far back, then turn, and all their force apply. 
While to the storm they give their weak complaining cry; 

59 



MARINE VIEWS. 

Or clap the sleek white pinion to the breast, 
And in the restless ocean clip for rest. 

Darkness begins to reign ; the louder wind 
Appals the weak, and awes the firmer mind ; 
But frights not him whom evening and the spra}' 
In part conceal — yon Prowler on his way: 
Lo ! he has something seen ; he runs apace, 
As if he fear'd companion in the chase ; 
He sees his prize, and now he turns again, 
Slowly and sorrowing — "Was your search in vain?"' 
Gruffly he answers, " 'Tis a sorry sight ! — 
A seaman's body : there'll be more to-night !" 
Hark to those sounds ! they're from distress at sea : 
How quick they come ! What terrors may there be ! 
Yes, 'tis a driven vessel: I discern 
Lights, signs of terror, gleaming from the .stern. 
Others behold them too, and from the towTi 
In various parties seamen hurry down ; 
Their wives pursue, and damsels, urged by dread. 
Lest men so dear be into danger led ; 
Their head the gown has hooded, and their call 
In this sad night is piercing like the squall ; 
They feel their kinds of power, and when they meel, 
Chide, fondle, weep, dare, threaten, or entreat. 

See one poor girl, all terror and alarm. 
Has fondly seiz'd upon her lover's arm ; 
"Thou shalt not venture;" and he answers "No! 
T will not:" — still she cries, "Thou shalt not go." 

No need of this ; not here the stoutest boat 
Can through such breakers, o'er such billows float : 
Yet may they view these lights upon the beach, 
Which yield them hope whom help can never reach. 

From parted clouds the moon her radiance throws 
On the wild Avaves, and all the danger shows : 
But shows them beaming in her shining vest, 
Terrific splendour ! gloom in glory dress'd ! 



60 



CRABEE. 

This for a moment, and then clouds again 
Hide every beam, and fear and darkness reign. 

But hear we not those sounds ? Do lights apj^ear ? 
I see them not! the storm alone I hear: 
And lo! the sailors homeward take their way; 
Man must endure — let us submit and pray. 




r,i 




A GOOD VILLAGER. 



Next to these ladies, but in nought fillied, 
A noble peasant, Isaac Ashford, died. 
Noble he was, contemning all things mean, 
His truth unquestion'd, and his soul serene : 
Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid ; 
At no man's question Isaac look'd disraay'd ; 
G2 



CRABBE. 

Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace ; 

Truth, simple truth, was written in his face : 

Yet while the serious thought his soul approv'd, 

Cheerful he seem'd, and gentleness he lov'd ; 

To bliss domestic he his heart resign' d, 

And with the firmest had the fondest mind ; 

Were others joyful, he look'd smiling on, 

And gave allowance where he needed none ; 

Good he refus'd v/ith future ill to buy, 

Nor knew a joy that caus'd Keflection's sigh; 

A friend to Virtue, his unclouded breast 

No envy stung, no jealousy distress'd ; 

(Bane of the poor! it wounds their weaker mind, 

To miss one favour, which their neighbours find :) 

Yet far was he from stoic pride remov'd ; 

He felt humanely, and he warmly lov'd: 

I mark'd his action, when his iiTj^^t died, 

And his old neighbour for offence was tried; 

The still tears, stealing down that furrow'd cheek. 

Spoke pity, plainer than the tongue can speak. 

If pride were his, 'twas not their vulgar pride, 

AYho, in their base contempt, the great deride ; 

Nor pride in learning, — though my clerk agreed. 

If fate should call him, Ashford might succeed ; 

Nor pride in rustic skill, although Ave knew 

None his superior, and his equals few : — 

But if that spirit in his soul had place, 

It was the jealous pride that shims disgrace ; 

A pride in honest fame, by virtue gain'd, 

In sturdy boys to virtuous labours train'd ; 

Pride in the power that guards his country's coast. 

And all that Englishmen enjoy and boast ; 

Pride in a life that Slander's tongue defied, — 

In fact, a noble passion, misnam'd Pride. 

He had no party's rage, no sect'ry's Avhim ; 
Christian and countrymen were all with him : 
True to his church he came ; no Sunday-shoAvcr 
63 



A GOOD VILLAGER. 

Kept him at home in that important hour ; 
Nor his firm feet could one persuading sect, 
By the strong glare of their new light direct : — 
"On hope, in mine own sober light, I gaze, 
But should be blind, and lose it, in jour blaze." 

In times severe, Avhen many a sturdy swain 
Felt it his pride, his comfort, to complain ; 
Isaac their wants would soothe, his own would hide. 
And feel in that his comfort and his pride. 

At length he found, when seventy years were run. 
His strength departed, and his labour done ; 
AVhen he, save honest fame, retain'd no more, 
But lost his wife, and saw his children poor : 
'Twas then a spark of — say not discontent — 
Struck on his mind, and thus he gave it vent : — 

"Kind are your laws ('tis not to be denied,) 
That in yon House, for ruin'd age, provide, 
And they are just ; — when young we give you all. 
And for assistance in our Aveakness call — 
Why then this proud reluctance to be fed, 
To join your poor, and eat the parish bread ? 
But yet I linger, loth with him to feed, 
Who gains his plenty by the sons of need ; 
He Avho, by contract, all your paupers took, 
And gauges stomachs with an anxious look : 
On some old master I could well depend ; 
See him with joy, and thank him as a friend ; 
But ill on him, who doles the day's supply, 
And counts our chances who at night may die : 
Yet help me, Heav'n ! and let me not complain 
Of what I suffer, but my fate sustain." 

Such were his thoughts, and so resign'd he grcAv : 
Daily he plac'd the Workhouse in his view ! 
But came not there, for sudden was his fate. 
He dropp'd, expiring, at his cottage gate. 

I feel his absence in the hours of prayer. 
And view his seat, and sigh for Isaac there : 
64 



CRABBE. 

I see no more those white locks thinly spread 
Round the bald polish of that honour' d head ; 
No more that awful glance on playful wight, 
Compel!' d to kneel and tremble at the sight, 
To fold his lingers, all in dread the Avhile, 
Till Mister Ashford soften'd to a smile; 
No more that meek and suppliant look in prayer, 
Nor the pure faith (to give it force) are there : — 
But he is blest, and I lament no more 
A wise good man contented to be poor. 



THE PARTING LOOK. 

One day he lighter seem'd, and they forgot 

The care, the dread, the anguish of their lot ; 

They spoke with cheerfulness, and seem'd to think, 

Yet said not so, "Perhaps he Avill not sink:" 

A sudden brightness in his look appcar'd, 

A sudden vigour in his voice was heard ; — 

She had been reading in the Book of Prayer, 

And led him forth, and placed him in his chair ; 

Lively he seem'd, and spoke of all he knew. 

The friendly many and the favourite few : 

Not one that day did he to mind re(!al 

But she has treasur'd, and she loves them all ; 

When in her way she meets them, they appear 

Peculiar people, — death has made them dear. 

He named his Friend, but then his hand she press'd. 

And fondly whispered, " Thou must go to rest." 

" I go," he said ; but as he spoke, she found 

His hand more cold, and fluttering was the sound ! 

Then gazed afFrighten'd ; but she caught a last, 

A dying look of love, — and all was past ! 

05 E 



MARY TIGHE. 



PSYCHE GAZING UPON THE LOYE-GOD. 



Allow'd to settle on celestial eyes, 
Soft Sleep, exiilting, now exerts his sway, 
From Psyche's anxious pillow gladly flies 
To veil those orbs, Avhose pure and lambent ray 
The Powers of heaven submissively obey. 
Trembling and breathless then she softly rose, 
And seized the lamp, where it obscurely lay. 
With hand too rashly daring to disclose 
The sacred veil which hung mysterious o'er her woes. 

Twice, as with agitated step she went. 
The lamp, expiring, shone with doubtful gleam, 
As though it warn'd her from her rash intent ; 
And twice she paas'd, and on its trembling beam 
Gazed with suspended breath, while voices seem 
With murmuring sound along the roof to sigh ; 
As one just waking from a troublous dream, 
With palpitating heart and straining eye, 
Still fix'd with fear remains, still thinks the danger nigh. 

Oh, daring Muse ! Avilt thou indeed essay 
To paint the wonders which that lamp could show? 
And canst thou hope in living Avords to say 
The dazzling glories of that heavenly view? 
Ah ! Avell I ween that, if with pencil true 
GG 



MARY TIGHE. 

That splendid vision could be well exprest, 
The fearful awe imprudent Psyche knew, 
AYould seize with raptui'e every Avondering breast, 
When Love's all-potent charms divinely stood confest. 

All imperceptible to human touch, 
His wings display celestial essence light ; 
The clear effulgence of the blaze is such, 
The brilliant plumage shines so heavenly bright, 
That mortal eyes turn dazzled from the sight ; 
A }'outh he seems in manhood's freshest years. 
Round his fair neck, as clinging with delight, 
Each golden curl resplendently appears, 
Or shades his darker brow, Avhich grace majestic wears ; 

Or o'er his guileless front his ringlets bright 
Their rays of sunny lustre seem to throw, 
That front than polish'd ivory more white ! 
His blooming cheeks with deeper blushes glow 
Than roses scatter'd o'er a bed of snow: 
While on his lips, distill'd in balmy dews, 
(Those lips divine that even in silence know 
The heart to touch,) persuasion to infuse. 
Still hangs a rosy charm that never vainly sues. 

The friendly curtain of indulgent sleep 
Disclos'd not yet his eyes' resistless sway. 
But from their silky veil there seem'd to peep 
Some brilliant glances with a soften'd ray, 
Which o'er his features exquisitely play. 
And all his polish'd limbs suffuse with light ; 
Thus through some narrow space the azure day. 
Sudden its cheerful rays diffusing bright, 
Wide darts its lucid beams, to gild the brow of night. 

His fatal arrows and celestial boAv 
Beside the couch were negligenth' thrown, 
67 



PSYCHE GAZING UPON THE LOVE-GOD. 

Nor needs the god his dazzling arms, to show 
His glorious birth, such beauty round him shone 
As sure could spring from Beauty's self alone ; 
The gloom which glow'd o'er all of soft desire, 
Could well proclaim him Beauty's cherish'd son ; 
And Beauty's self will oft these charms admire. 
And steal his witching smile, his glance's living fire. 

Speechless Avith awe, in transport strangely lost. 
Long Psyche stood with fix'd adoring eye ; 
Her limbs immovable, her senses tost 
Between amazement, fear, and ecstasy. 
She hangs enamour'd o'er the deity — 
Till from her trembling hand extinguish'd falls 
The iatal lamp. — He starts — and suddenly 
Tremendous thunders echo through the halls. 
While ruin's hideous crash bursts o'er the affrighted walls. 

Dread Horror seizes on her sinking heart, 
A mortal chillness shudders at her breast ; 
Her soul shrinks fainting from Death's icy dart. 
The groan scarce utter'd dies but half-exprest, 
And down she sinks in deadly swoon opprest ; 
But when, at length, awakening from her trance 
The terrors of her fate stand all confest, 
In vain she casts around her timid glance, 
The rudely frowning scenes her former joys enhance. 

No traces of those joys, alas ! remain ; 
A desert solitude alone appears. 
No verdant shade relieves the sandy plain, 
The wide-spread waste no gentle fountain cheers. 
One bari'en face the dreary prospect wears ; 
Nought through the vast horizon meets her eye 
To calm the dismal tumult of her fears. 
No trace of human habitation nigh, 
A sandy wild beneath, above a threatening sky. 

68 




ANN RADCLIFFE. 



TO MELANCHOLY. 



Spirit of love and sorrow, — hail ! 

Thy solemn voice from far I hear, 
Mingling with E^■cning's dying gale, 

Hail, with this sadly-pleasing tear! 



Oh, at this still, this lonely honr, 

Thine o-n-n sweet hour of closing day, 

Awake thy lute, whose charmful power 
Shall call up Fancy to obey; 
C9 



TO MELANCHOLY. 

To paint the wild romantic dream, 
That meets the poet's musing eye, 

As on the bank of shadowy stream 
He breathes to her the fervid sigh. 

lonely spirit ! let thy song 

Lead me through all thy sacred haunt ; 
The minster's moonlight aisles along, 

Where spectres raise the midnight chaunt. 

1 hear their dirges faintly swell ! 
Then sink at once in silence drear. 

While, from the pillar'd cloister's cell, 
Dunly their gliding forms appear ! 

Lead where the pine- woods wave on high, 
Whose pathless sod is darkly seen, 

As the cold moon, with trembling eye. 
Darts her long beams the leaves between. 

Lead to the mountain's dusky head. 
Where, far below, in shades profound, 

Wide forests, plains, and hamlets spread, 
And sad the chimes of vesper sound. 

Or guide me where the dashing oar 
Just breaks the stillness of the vale : 

As slow it ti'acks the winding shore. 
To meet the ocean's distant sail: 

To pebbly banks that Neptune laves, 
With measur'd surges, loud and deep ; 

\Vhere the dark cliff bends o'er the waves, 
And wild the Avinds of Autumn sweep. 

There pause at midnight's spectred hour, 
And list the long-resounding gale ; 

And catch the fleeting moonlight's power 
O'er foaming seas and distant sail. 
70 



A^^fN EADCLIFFE. 



SONG OF A SPIRIT. 



In the sightless air I dwell, 

On the sloping sunbeams play; 
Delve the cavern's inmost cell, 

Where never yet did daylight stray. 

I dive beneath the green sea waves, 

And gambol in the briny deeps; 
Skim every shore that Neptune laves. 

From Lapland's plains to India's steeps. 

Oft I mount -with rapid force, 

Above the wide earth's shado\^y zone, 

FolloAV the day-star's flaming course, 

Through realms of space to thought unknown 

And listen to celestial sounds 

That swell in air, unheard of men, 

As I watch my nightly rounds 
O'er woody steep and silent glen. 

Under the shade of waving trees. 

On the green bank of fountain clear, 

At pensive eve I sit at ease. 

While dying music murmurs near. 

And oft, on point of airy clift 

That hangs upon the western main, 

I watch the gay tints passing swift. 
And twilight veil the liquid plain. 
71 



SONG OF A SPIRIT. 

Then, when the breeze has sunk away. 

And Ocean scarce is heard to lave, 
For me the sea-nymphs softly play 

Their dulcet shells bei^eath the wave. 

Their dulcet shells ! — I hear them now ; 

Slow swells the strain upon mine ear ; 
Now faintly falls — now warbles low, 

Till rapture melts into a tear. 

The ray that silvers o'er the dew. 
And trembles through the leafy shade, 

And tints the scene with softer hue, 
Calls me to rove the lonely glade ; 

Or hie me to some ruin'd tower, 
Faintly shown by moonlight gleam. 

Where the lone wanderer owns my power, 
In shadows dire that substance seem ; 

In thrilling sounds that murmur woe, 
And pausmg silence make more dread ; 

In music breathing from below 

Sad, solemn strains, that wake the dead. 

Unseen I move — unknoAvn am fear'd ; — 
Fancy's wildest dreams I weave ; 

And oft by bards my voice is heard 
To die along the gales of eve. 





ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD. 

A SUMMER EVENING'S MEDITATION 

"One sun hj day, by night ton thousand shine." — -Yousg. 

'Tis past, — the sultry tyrant of the South 

Has s]ient his short-Iiv'd rage ; moi'c grateful hours 



A SUMMER EVENING'S MEDITATION. 

Move silent on ; the skies no more repel 
The dazzled sight, but, with mild maiden beams 
Of temper'd lustre, court the cherish'd eye 
To wander o'er their sphere ; where hung aloft 
Dian's bright crescent, like a silver bow, 
New strung in heaven, lifts its beamy horns 
Impatient for the night, and seems to push 
Her brother down the sky. Fair Venus shines 
Even in the eye of day ; Avith sweetest beam 
Propitious shines, and shakes a trembling flood 
Of soften'd radiance with her de^^^ locks. 
The shadows spread apace ; while meeken'd Eve, 
Her cheek yet warm with blushes, slow retires 
Through the Plesperian gardens of the West, 
And shuts the gates of Day. 'Tis now the hour 
When Contemplation, from her sunless haunts. 
The cool damp grotto, or the lonely depth 
Of un^iierc'd woods, where wrapt in solid shade 
She mus'd away the gaudy hours of noon. 
And fed on thoughts unripen'd by the sun, 
Moves forward ; and with radiant finger points 
To yon blue concave swelFd by breath divine, 
Where, one by one, the living eyes of heaven 
Awake, quick kindling o'er the face of ether 
One boundless blaze ; ten thousand trembling fires, 
And dancing lustres, where th' unsteady eye, 
Restless and dazzled, wanders unconfin'd 
O'er all this field of glories ; spacious field. 
And worthy of the Master : He, whose hand 
With hieroglyphics elder than the Nile 
Insci'ibed the mystic tablet ; hung on high 
To public gaze, and said, Adore, O man ! 
The finger of thy God. From Avhat pure wells 
Of milky light, what soft o'erflowing urn. 
Are all these lamps so fill'd? — these friendly lamps, 
For ever streaming o'er the azure deep 
To point our path, and light us to our home. 

74 



ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD. 

How soft they slide along their lucid spheres! 

And, silent as the foot of Time, fuUil 

Their destin'd courses. Nature's self is hush'd, 

And, but a scatter' d leaf, Avhich rustles through 

The thick-wove foliage, not a sound is heard 

To break the midnight air; though the rais'd ear, 

Intensely listening, drinks in every breath. 

How deep the silence, yet how loud the praise! 

But are they silent all? or is there not 

A tongue in every star that talks Avith man, 

And woos him to be wise ? nor woos in vain : 

This dead of midnight is the noon of thought. 

And Wisdom mounts her zenith with the stars. 

At this still hour the self-collected soul 

Turns inward, and beholds a stranger there 

Of high descent, and more than mortal rank ; 

An embryo God ; a spark of lire di\ ine. 

Which must burn on for ages, when the sun 

(Fair transitory creature of a day !) 

Has clos'd his golden eye, and, wrapt in shades, 

Forgets his wonted journey through the East. 

Ye citadels of light, and seats of Gods ! 
Perhaps my future home, from whence the soul, 
Revolving periods past, may oft look back, 
W^ith recollected tenderness, on all 
The various busy scenes she left below, 
Its deep-laid projects and its strange events. 
As on some fond and doting tale that sooth'd 
Her infant hours — O be it lawful now 
To tread the hallow'd circle of your courts. 
And with mute wonder and delighted awe 
Approach your burning confines. Seized in thought, 
On Fancy's wild and roving wing I sail, 
From the green borders of the peojiled earth. 
And the pale moon, lier duteous, fair attendant ; 
From solitary Mars; from the vast orb 



76 



A SUMMER EVENING'S MEDITATION. 

Of Jupiter, whose huge gigantic bulk 

Dances in ether like the lightest leaf; 

To the dim verge, the suburbs of the system, 

AYhere cheerless Saturn 'midst his Avat'ry moons 

Girt ■^^ith a lucid zone, in gloomy pomp. 

Sits like an exiled monarch : fearless thence 

I launch into the trackless deeps of space, 

Where, burning round, ten thousand suns appear. 

Of elder beam, which ask no leave to shine 

Of our terrestrial star, nor borrow light 

From the proud regent of our scanty day ; 

Sons of the morning, first-born of creation, 

And only less than Him who marks their track, 

And guides their fiery wheels. Here must I stop. 

Or is there aught beyond 1 What hand unseen 

Impels me onward through the glo^^-ing orbs 

Of habitable nature, far remote. 

To the dread confines of eternal night, 

To solitudes of waste unpeopled space, 

The deserts of creation, wide and wild ; 

Where embryo systems and unkindled suns 

Sleep in the Avomb of chaos? Fancy droops, 

And Thought, astonish' d, stops her bold career. 

But oh, thou mighty Mind! whose powerful word 

Said, Thus let all things be, and thus they were, 

AVliere shall I seek thy presence? how unblam'd 

Invoke thy dread perfection? 

Have the broad eye-lids of the morn beheld thee? 

Or does the beamy shoulder of Orion 

Support thy throne? Oh, look with pity down 

On erring, guilty man ; not in thy names 

Of terror clad; not with those thunders arm'd 

That conscious Sinai felt, when fear appall'd 

The scatter'd tribes ; thou hast a gentler voice, 

That whispers comfort to the swelling heart. 

Abash'd, yet longing to behold her Maker! 



76 



ANNA LETITIA BAKBAULD. 

But now my soul, unus'd to stretch her powers 

In flight so daring, drops her weary wing. 

And seeks again the known accustom'd spot, 

Drest up with sun, and shade, and lawns, and streams, 

A mansion fair and sj)acious for its guests. 

And all replete with wonders. Let me here, 

Content and grateful, wait th' appointed time, 

And ripen for the skies: the hour will come 

When all these splendours bursting on my sight 

Shall stand unveil'd, and to my ravish'd sense 

Unlock the glories of the world unknown. 



A PETITION. 



If the soft hand of winning Pleasure leads 
By living waters, and through flowery meads, 
Where all is smiling, tranquil, and serene, 
And vernal beauty paints the flattering scene, 
Oh! teach me to elude each latent snare. 
And whisper to my sliding heart, — Beware! 
With caution let me hear the Syren's voice. 
And doubtful, with a trembling heart rejoice. 
If friendless m a vale of tears I stray. 
Where briers wound, and thorns perplex my way 
Still let my steady soul thy goodness see. 
And, with strong confidence, lay hold on Thee ; 
With equal eye my various lot receive, 
Resign'd to die, or resolute to live; 
Prepar'd to kiss the sceptre or the rod, 
Wliile God is seen in all, and all in God. 



77 



_.<ff0^' 



.^Sai»r^ 




HANNAH MOEK 



FLORIO AND HIS FRIEND 



TWO PORTRAITS. 



^ Florid, a youth of gay renown, 
Who figur'd much about the town, 
Had pass'd, with general approbation. 
The modish forms of education ; , 

78 ^ 



HANNAH MORE. 

Knew what was proper to be known, 

Th' establish'd jargon of Bon-ton ; 

Had learnt, with very moderate reading, 

The whole new system of good breeding : 

He studied to be cold and rude, 

Though native feeling would intrude : 

Unlucky sense and sympathy 

Spoilt the vain thing he strove to be. 

For Florio was not meant by nature, 

A silly or a worthless creature : 

He had a heart dispos'd to feel, 

Had life and spu-it, taste and zeal ; 

Was handsome, generous ; but, by fate, 

Predestin'd to a large estate ! 

Hence, all that grac'd his op'ning days 

Was marr'd by pleasure, spoil'd by praise. 

The Destiny, who wove the thread 

Of Florio's being, sigh'd, and said, 

" Poor youth ! this cumbrous twist of gold, 

More than my shuttle well can hold. 

For Avhich thy anxious fathers toil'd, 

Thy Avhite and even thread has spoiFd : 

'Tis this shall warp thy pliant youth 

From sense, simplicity, and truth ; 

Thy erring fire, by wealth misled, 

Shall scatter pleasures round thy head, 

WTien wholesome discipline's control 

Should brace the sinews of thy soul ; 

£ Coldly thou'lt toil for learning's prize, , 
For why should he that's rich be wisejf' 
>>The gracious Master of mankind, ^ 
AVlio knew us vain, corrupt, and blind, 
In mercy, though in anger, said. 
That man should earn his daily bread ; 
His lot inaction renders worse. 
While labour mitigates the curse ; 
The idle life's worst burdens bear, 
79 



FLORIO AND HIS FRIEND. 

And meet, what toil escapes, despaii'! 
Forgive, nor lay the fault on me. 
This mixture of mythology ; 
The Muse of Paradise has deign'd 
With truth to mingle fables feign'd ; 
And though the Bard that would attain 
The glories, INIilton, of thy strain, 
AVill never reach thy style or thoughts. 
He may be like thee — in thy faults ! 

Exliausted Florio, at the age 
Wlien youth should rush on glory's stage, 
\Yhen life should open fresh and new. 
And ardent Hope her schemes pursue ; 
Of youthful gaiety bereft, 
Had scarce an unbroach'd pleasure left ; 
He foiuid already to his cost. 
The shining gloss of life was lost ; 
And Pleasure was so coy a prude. 
She fled the more, the more pursued ; 
Or if o'ertaken and caress'd. 
He loath'd and left her when possess'd. 
But Florio knew the World ; that science 
Sets sense and learning at defiance ; 
He thought the World to him was known, 
Wliereas he only knew the Town ; 
In men this blunder still you find, 
All think their little set — Mankind. 

Though high renown the youth had gain'd, 
No flagrant crimes his life had stain'd. 
No tool of falsehood, slave of passion. 
But spoilt by Custom, and the Fashion. 
Though known among a certain set, 
He did not like to be in debt ; 
He shudder'd at the dicer's box. 
Nor thought it veiy heterodox 
That tradesmen should be sometimes paid, 
And bargains kept as well as made. 
80 



HANNAH MORE. 

Mis growing credit, as a sinner, 
Was that he lik'd to spoil a dinner; 
Made pleasure and made business wait ; 
And still, by system, came too late ; 
Yet 'twas a hopeful indication 

COn which to found a reputation : 
Small habits, well pursued, betimes 
^laj- reach the dignity of crimes ; 
And who a juster claim preferr'd 
Than one who always broke his word? 
His mornings were not spent in vice, 
'Twas lounging, sauntering, eating ice ; 
Walk up and down St. James's Street, 
Full fifty times the youth you'd meet: 
VHe hated cards, detested drinking, 
Uiut stroll'd to shun the toil of thinking ; 
'Twas doing nothing was his curse, — 
Is there a vice can plague us worse? 
The Avretch Avho digs the mine for bread, 
Or ploughs, that others may be fed, 
Feels less fatigue than that decreed 
To him who cannot think, or read. 
Not all the peril of temptations. 
Not all the conflict of the passions, 
Can quench the spark of Glory's flame. 
Or quite extinguish Virtue's name. 
Like the true taste for genuine saunter. 
Like Sloth, the soul's most dire enchanter. 
The active fires that stir the breast 
Her poppies cliarm to fatal rest; 
They rule in short and quick succession, 
But Sloth keeps one long, fast possession : 
Ambition's reign is quickly clos'd, 
Th' usurper Eage is soon depos'd ; 
Intemperance, where there's no temptation, 
Makes voluntary abdication ; 
Of other tyrants short the strife, 
81 



FLOEIO AND HIS FKIEND. 

But Indolence is king for life: 
The despot twists, with soft control. 
Eternal fetters round the soul. 

Yet though so polish'd Florio's breeding, 
Think him not ignorant of reading: 
For he, to keep him from the vapours, 
Subscrib'd at Hookham's, saw the papers ; 
Was deep in poet's-corner wit; 
Knew what was in italics writ ; 
Explain' d fictitious names at will ; 
Each gutted syllable could fill. 
There oft, in paragraphs, his name 
Gave symptom sweet of growing fame ; 
Though yet they only serv'd to huit 
That Flokio lov'd to see in print 
His ample buckles' alter'd shape, 
His buttons chang'd, his varying cape ; 
And many a standard phrase was his 
Might rival hore, or banish quiz. 
The man who grasps this young renown, 
And early starts for Fashion's crown. 
In time that glorious prize may wield, 
Which clubs and ev'n Newmarket yield. 

He studied while he dress'd, for, true 'tis. 
He read Compendiums, Extracts, Beauties, 
Ahregcs, Dictionnaires, Heciieils, 
Mercures, Journaux, Extraits, and Feuilles : 
No work in substance now is follow' d, 
The chemic extract only's swallow' d. 
hSe lik'd those literary cooks . 
Who skim the cream of others' books ; 
^nd ruin half an author's graces 
^^y plucking bon mots from their places. 
Pie wonders any wi'iting sells 
But these spic'd mushrooms and morells. 
His palate works alone can touch 
Where every mouthful is botme boiiche. 
82 



HANNAH MORE. 

Some phrase that with the public took 
Was all he read of any book ; 
For plan, detail, arrangement, system, 
He let them go, and never miss'd 'em. 
Of each new Play he saw a part, 
And all the anas had by heart : 
He found whatever they produce 
Is fit for conversation-use ; 
Learning so ready for display, 
A page Avould prime him for a day: 
They cram not with a mass of knowledge, 
Which smacks of toil, and smells of college, 
Which in the memory useless lies. 
Or only makes men — good and wise. 
This might have merit once, indeed, 
But now for other ends we read. 
A friend he had, Bellaeio hight, 
A reasoning, reading, learned wight ; 
At least, with men of Florio's breeding, 
He was a prodigy of reading. 
He knew each stale and vapid lie 
In tomes of French philosophy ; 
And these, we fairly may presume. 
From Pyrrho down to David HujVIE, 
'Twere difficult to single out 
A man more full of shallow doubt : 
He knew the little sceptic prattle. 
The sophist's paltry arts of battle ; 
Talk'd gravely of th' Atomic dance. 
Of moral fitness, fate, and chance ; 
Admir'd the system of Lucretius, 
Wliose matchless verse makes nonsense specious! 
To this his doctrine owes its merits. 
Like pois'nous reptiles kept in spirits ; 
Though sceptics dull his schemes rehearse, 
Who have not souls to taste his verse. 
Bellario founds his reputation 
83 



FLOKIO AND HIS FlilENU. 

On dry, stale jokes about Creation ; 
\ Would prove, by argument circuitous, 
LTlie combination was fortuitous. 
Swore priests' whole trade was to deceive, 
And prey on bigots who believe ; 
With bitter ridicule could jeer, 
And had the true free-thinking sneer. 
TOrave arguments he had in store, 
LAVhich had been answer'd o'er and o'er; 
r And us'd, with wondrous penetration, 
Lriie trite, old trick of false citation : 

[From ancient authors fond to quote 
A phrase, or thought, they never wrote. 
Upon his highest shelf there stood 
The Classics, neatly cut in wood ; 
And in a more commodious station, 
You found them in a French translation : 
He swears, 'tis from the Greek he quotes, 
But keeps the French — just for the notes. 
He worshipp'd certain modern names 
Who history Avrite in epigrams. 
In pointed periods, shining phrases, 
And all the small poetic daisies 
Wliich crowd the pert and florid style, 
Wliere fact is dropt to raise a smile ; 
Wliere notes indecent or profane 
Serve to 7'aise doubts, but not ea:j}Iain : 
Where all is spangle, glitter, show. 
And truth is overlaid below: 
Arts scorn'd by History's sober Muse, 
Arts Clarendon disdain'd to use. 
Whate'er the subject of debate, 
'Twas larded still with sceptic prate ; 
Begin whatever theme you will. 
In unbelief he lands you still : 

pThe good, with shame I speak it, feel 

I Not half this proselyting zeal : 
84 



^ HANNAH MORE. 



While cold their Master's cause to own. 

Content to go to heav'n alone, 

The infidel, in liberal trim, 

Would carry all the world with him ; 

Would trust his wife, friend, kindred, nation. 

Mankind — with what ? Annihilation. 
/ Though Florio did not quite believe him, 
>»He thought, why should a friend deceive him? 

Much as he prized Bellario's wit, 

He lik'd not all his notions yet ; 

He thought him charming, pleasant, odd, 

But hop'd one might believe in God ; 

[Yet such the charms that grac'd his tongue. 
He knew not how to think him wrong. 
Thoiigh Florio tried a thousand ways. 
Truth's insuppx'essive torch would blaze : 
Where once her flame has burnt, I doubt 
If ever it go fairly out. 

Yet, under great Bellario's care. 
He gain'd each day a better air; 
With many a leader of renown. 
Deep in the learning of the Town, 
Who never other science knew. 
But what from that prime source they drew ; 
I'leas'd, to the Opera they repair. 
To get recruits of knowledge there ; 
Mythology gain at a glance, 
And learn the Classics from a dance : 
In Ovid they ne'er cai''d a groat 
How far'd the vent'i'ous Argonaut; 
Yet charm' d they see Medea rise 
On fiery dragons to the skies. 
For Dido, though they never knew her 
As Maro's magic pencil drew her. 
Faithful and fond, and broken-hearted, 
Her pious Vagabond departed, 
Yet, for DiDONE how they roar I 
85 




Aiid Cara ! Cara ! loud encore. 

One taste Bellario's soul possess'd, 
The master-passion of his breast ; 
It was not one of those frail joys, 
Which, by possession, quickly cloys ; 
This bliss was solid, constant, true, 
'Twas action, and 'twas passion too-. 
For though the business might be fiidsh'd 
8G 



HANNAH MORE. 

The pleasure scarcely was climinish'd ; 
Did he ride out, or sit, or walk. 
He liv'd it o'er again in talk ; 
Prolong'd the fugitive delight, 
In Avords by day, in dreams by night. 
'Twas eatinrj did his soul allure, 
A deep, keen, modish Epicure ; 
Though once this name, as I opine. 
Meant not such men as live to dine ; 
Yet all our modern Wits assure us, 
That's all they know of Epicurus: 
They fondly fancy, that repletion 
Was the chief good of that fam'd Grecian. 
To live in gardens full of flowery. 
And talk philosophy in bowers, 
Or, in the covert of a wood. 
To descant on the sovereign good, 
Might be the notion of their founder, 
But they have notions vastly sounder: 
Their bolder standards they erect, 
To form a more substantial sect ; 
Old Epicurus would not own 'em, 
A Dinner is their summum honum; 
More like you'll find such sparks as these 
To Epicurus' deities ; 
Like them, they mix not with affairs, 
But loll and laugh at human cares. 
To beaux this difference is allow'd, 
Qriiey choose a sofa for a cloud. 
Bellario had embrac'd mth glee 
This practical philosophy. 



87 



BOWLES. 
RETURN TO OXFORD. 

CHER WELL. 

Cuerwell! how pleased along thy willow'd edge 
Erewhile I stray'd ; or when the morn began 
To tinge aloft the turret's golden Ian, 

Or Evening glimmer'd o'er the sighing sedge, 

And now, reclin'd upon thy banks once more, 
I bid the pipe farewell, and that sad lay 
AVhose music on my melancholy way 

I woo'd, beneath thy willows waging hoar. 

Seeking to rest — till the returning sun 

Of joy beam out, as when Heaven's humid bow 
Shines silent on the passing storm below ; 

Whate'er betide, yet something have I won 

Of solace, that may bear me on serene, 

Till Eve's dim hand shall close the sinkino; scene. 



ON THE RHINE. 

"TwAS morn, and beautiful the mountains' brow,— 
Hung with the clusters of the bending vine — 
Shone in the early light, when on the Eiiink 

We sail'd, and heard the Avaters round the prow 

In murmurs parting ; varying as Ave go, 

Rocks after rocks come forward and retue, 
As some grey convent-wall, or sunlit spire 

Starts up, along the banks, unfolding slow. 

88 



iii^ii 




Here castles, like the prisons of despair, 

FroAvn as we pass ! — There, on the vineyard's side, 
The bursting sunshine pours its streaming tide; 
While Grief, forgetful amid scenes so fair. 
Counts not the hours of a long summer's day, 
Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away. 

8!) 



THE CELL OF THE MISSIONARY. 



THE CELL OF THE MISSIONARY. 

Fronting the ocean, but beyond the ken 

Of public view, and sounds of murm'ring men, — 

Of unhewn roots compos' d, and gnarled wood, 

A small and rustic Oratory stood: 

Upon its roof of reeds appear'd a cross, 

The porch within was lin'd with mantling moss ; 

A crucifix and hour-glass, on each side — 

One to admonish seem'd, and One to guide ; 

This, to impress how soon life's race is o'er; 

And that, to lift our hopes where time shall be no more. 

O'er the rude porch, with wild and gadding stray. 

The clust'rmg copu weav'd its trellis gay : 

Two mossy pines, high bending, interwove 

Their aged and fantastic arms above. 

In front, amid the gay surrounding flowers, 

A dial counted the departing hours, 

On Avhich the sweetest light of summer shone, — 

A rude and brief inscription mai'k'd the stone : — 

" To count, with passing shade, the hours, 
I plac'd the dial 'mid the flowers. 
That, one by one, came forth, and died, 
Blooming, and with' ring, round its side. 
Mortal, let the sight impart 
Its pensive moral to thy heart!" 

Just heard to trickle through a covert near, 
And soothing, with perpetual lapse, the ear, 
A fount, like rain-drops, filter'd through the stone, — 
And, bright as amber, on the shallows shone. 
Intent his fairy pastime to pursue. 
And, gem-like, hovering o'er the violets blue, 

90 



BOWLES. 

The humming-bird, here, its unceasing song 
Heedlessly murniur'd all the summer long, 
And when the winter came, retu-'d to rest. 
And from the mjTtles hung its trembling nest, 
No sounds of a conflicting world were near ; 
The noise of ocean faintly met the ear. 
That seem'd, as sunk to rest the noon-tide blast, 
But dying sounds of passions that were past ; 
Or closing anthems, when, far off, expire 
The lessening echoes of the distant choir. 

Here, every human sorrow hush'd to rest. 
His pale hands meekly cross' d upon his breast, 
Anselmo sat : the sun, with west'ring ray. 
Just touch' d his temples, and his locks of grey. 
There was no worldly feeling in his eye ; — 
The world to him "was as a thing gone by." 

Now, all his features lit, he rais'd his look. 
Then bent it thoughtful, and unclasp'd the book ; 
And whilst the hour-glass shed its silent sand, 
A tame opossum lick'd his wither' d hand. 
That sweetest light of slow-declming day, 
Which through the trellis pour'd its slanting ray. 
Resting a moment on his few grey hairs, 
Seem'd light from heaven sent down to bless his pray'rs. 

"When the trump echo'd to the quiet .spot. 
He thought upon the world, but mourn'd it not ; 
Enough if his meek wisdom could control. 
And bend to mercy, one proud soldier's soul ; 
Enough, if while these distant scenes he trod. 
He led one erring Indian to his God. 



91 



THE HOME or THE OLD INDIAN. 



THE HOME OF THE OLD INDIAN. 



Beneath aerial cliffs, and glittering snows, 

The rush-roof of an aged warrior rose, 

Chief of the mountain tribes : high, overhead. 

The Andes, wild and desolate, were spread, 

Where cold Sierras shat their icy spires. 

And Chilean trail'd its smoke, and smould'ring fires. 

A glen beneath — a lonely spot of rest — 

Hung, scarce discover'd, like an eagle's nest. 

Summer was in its prime ; — the parrot-flocks 

Dai'ken'd the passing svmshine on the rocks ; 

The chrysomel and purple butterfly, 

Amid the clear blue light, are wand'ring by ; 

The humming-bird, along the myrtle bow'rs. 

With twinkling wing, is spinning o'er the flow'rs, 

The woodpecker is heard Avith busy bill, 

The mock-bird sings — and all beside is still. 

And look ! the catai-act, that bursts so high 

As not to mar the deep tranquillity. 

The tumult of its dashing fall suspends. 

And, stealing drop by drop, in mist descends ; 

Through whose illumin'd spray and sprinkling dews, 

Shine to the adverse sun the broken rainbow hues. 

Check'ring, with partial shade, the beams of noon, 
And arching the grey rock with wild festoon, 
Here, its gay net-work, and fantastic twine, 
The purple cogul threads from pine to pine. 
And oft, as the fresh airs of morning breathe. 
Dips its long tendrils in the stream beneath. 
There, through the trunks, Avith moss and lichens white. 
The sunshine darts its interrupted light, 

92 



BOWLES. 

And, 'mid the cedars' darksome boughs, illumes, 

With instant touch, the lori's scarlet plumes. 

So smiles the scene ; — but can its smiles impart 

Aught to console yon mourning warrior's heart i 

He heeds not now, when, beautifully bright, 

The humming-bird is circling in his sight; 

Nor e'en, above his head, when air is still, 

Hears the green woodpecker's resounding bill ; 

But, gazing on the rocks and mountains wild, 

Hock after rock, in glittering masses, pil'd 

To the volcano's cone, that shoots so liigh 

Cxrey smoke, whose column stains the cloudless sk^' 

He cries, " Oh ! if thy spirit yet be lied 

To the pale kingdoms of the shadowy dead. — 

In yonder track of purest light above. 

Dear, long-lost object of a father's love, 

Dost thou abide? or, like a shadow come, 

Circling the scenes of thy remember'd home, 

And passing with the breeze? or, in the beam 

Of evening, light the desert mountain-stream ? 

Or at deep midnight are thine accents heard, 

In the sad notes of that melodious bird. 

Which, as we listen with mysterious dread. 

Brings tidings from our friends and fathers dead? 

Perhaps, beyond those summits, far away. 
Thine eyes yet view the living light of day ; 
Sad, in the stranger's land, thou mayst sustain 
A weary life of servitude and pain, 
AVith wasted eye gaze on the orient beam. 
And think of these white rocks and torrent-stream. 
Never to hear the summer cocoa wave. 
Or weep upon thy father's distant grave." 



Ye, who have Avak'd, and listen'd with a tear, 
"WTien cries confus'd, and clangours roH'd more near 
With murmur'd prayer, when Mercy stood aghast, 

93 



THE HOME OF THE OLD INDIAN. 

As War's black trump peal'd its terrific blast, 

And o'er the wither'd earth the armed giant pass'd. 

Ye, who his track with terror have pursued, 

\Vlien some delightful land, all blood-imbued. 

He swept ; where silent is the champaign wide. 

That echo'd to the pipe of yester-tide. 

Save, when far off, the moonlight hills prolong 

The last deep echoes of his parting gong ; 

Nor aught is seen, in the deserted spot 

Where trail'd the smoke of many a peaceful cot, 

Save livid corses that unburied lie, 

And conflagrations, reeking to the sky; 

Come listen, whilst the causes I relate 

That bow'd the warrior to the storms of fate. 

And left these smiling scenes forloni and desolate. 

In other days, when, in his manly pride, 
Two children for a father's fondness vied, — 

Oft they essay'd, in mimic strife, to wield 
His lance, or laughing peep'd behind his shield. 
Oft in the sun, or the magnolia's shade, 
Lightsome of heart, as gay of look, they play'd, 
Brother and sister: She, along the dew, 

Blithe as the squirrel of the forest, flew; 

Blue rushes wreath'd her head; her dark brown hair 

Fell, gently lifted, on her bosom bare; 

Her necklace shone, of sparkling insects made. 

That flit, like specks of fire, from sun to shade. 

Light was her form; a clasp of silver brac'd 

The azure-dyed ichella round her waist; 

Her ancles rung with shells, as, unconfin'd. 

She danc'd, and sung wild carols to the wind. 

With snow-white teeth, and laughter in her eye, — 

So, beautiful in youth, she bounded by. 
Yet kindness sat upon her aspect bland, — 

The tame alpaca stood and lick'd her hand; 

She brought him gather'd moss, and lov'd to deck 

With flow'ry twine his tall and stately neck. 

94 




Wliilst he with silent gratitude replies, 
And bends to her caress his large blue eyes. 

These children danc'd together in the shade, 
Or stretch'd their hands to see the rainbow fade ; 

95 



THE HOME OF THE OLD INDIAN. 

Or sat and inock'd, with imitative glee, 

The paroquet, that laugh'd from tree to tree ; 

Or through the forest's wildest solitude, 

From glen to glen the marmozet pursued ; 

And thought the light of parting day too short, 

That call'd them, ling'ring, from their daily sport. 

Li that fair season of awak'ning life, 
When dawning youth and childhood are at strife ; 
When on the verge of thought gay boyhood stands 
Tip-toe, with gllst'ning eye and outspread hands ; 
With airy look, and form and footsteps light. 
And glossy locks, and features berry-bright, 
And eye like the young eaglet's to the ray 
Of noon, unblenching, as he sails away ; 
A brede of sea-shells on his bosom strung, 
A small stone hatchet o'er his shoulders slung. 
With slender lance, and feathers blue and red, 
That like the heron's crest wav'd on his head, — 
Buoyant with hope, and airiness, and joy, 
Lautaro was the loveliest Indian boy : 
Taught by his sire, ev'n now he drew the bow, 
Or track'd the jaguar on the morning snow ; 
Startled the condor on the craggy height ; 
Then silent sat, and mark'd its upward flight. 
Lessening in ether to a speck of Avhite. 

But when th' impassioned Chieftain spoke of war, 
Smote his broad breast, or pointed to a scar, — 
Spoke of the strangers of the distant main. 
And the proud banners of insulting Spain, — 
Of the barb'd horse and iron horseman spoke, 
And his red gods, that, wi-app'd in rolling smoke, 
Roar'd from the guns, — the Boy, with still-drawn breath, 
Hung on the wondrous tale, as mute as death ; 
Then rais'd his animated eyes, and cried, 

"O! LET ME PERISH BY MY FATHER'S SIDE !" 



96 




LANDING AT TYNEMOUTH. 



As slow I climb the cliff's ascending side, 
Much musing on the track of terror past, 
When o'er the dark wave rode the howling blast — 
Pleas'd I look back, and view the tranquil tide 
That laves the pebbled shore : and now the beam 
Of evening smUes on the gi'ey battlement 
Of yon forsaken tower that Time has rent ; 
The lifted oar far off with transient gleam 
Is touch'd, and hush'd is all the billoA\y deep, 

97 o 



THE BURIAL PLACE. 

O'er-spent ; oh ! when on wakeful Memory's breai; 

Shall stillness steal like this, and kindred rest? 
Then some sweet harmonies might soothe her sleep, 
Harmonies, on the wandering minstrel's lyre, 
Like airs of parting day, that, as they breathe, expire. 



THE BURIAL PLACE. 



The Lidian, sad and still, 
Pac'd on from wood to vale, from vale to hUl ; - 
Her infant, tir'd, and hush'd awhile to rest, 
Smil'd, in a dream, upon its mother's breast; 
The pensive mother grey Anselmo led : 
Behind, Lautaro bore his Father dead. 

Beneath the branching palms they slept at night ; 
The small birds wak'd them ere the morning light. 
Before their path, in distant view, appear'd 
The mountain-smoke, that its dark column rear'd 
O'er Andes' summits, in the pale blue sky, 
Lifting their icy pinnacles so high. 
Four days they onward led their eastern way : 
On the fifth rising morn before them lay 
Chillan's lone glen, amid whose windings green 
The Warrior's lov'd and last abode was seen. 
No smoke went up, — stillness was all around, 
Save where the waters fell with, soothing sound, 
Save where the Thenca sung so loud and clear. 
And the bright humming-bird Avas spinning near. 

98 



BOWLES. 

Yet here all human tumults seem'd to cease, 
And sunshine rested on the spot of peace ; 
The myrtles bloom'd as fragrant and as green 
As if Lautaro scarce had left the scene, — 
And in his ear the falling water's spray 
Seem'd swelling with the sounds of yesterday. — 

"Wliere yonder rock the aged cedars shade, 
There shall my father's bones in peace be laid." 

Beneath the cedars' shade they dug the ground ; 
The small and sad communion gather' d round. 
Beside the grave stood aged Izdabel, 
And broke the spear, and cried, " Farewell ! — farewell !" 
Lautaro hid his face, and sigh'd " Adieu !" 
As the stone hatchet in the grave he threw. 
The little child, that to its mother clung. 
With sidelong looks, that on her garment hung, 
Listen'd, half-shrinking, as with awe profound, 
And dropt its flowers, unconscious, on the ground. 
The Alpaca, groA\'Ti old, and almost wild. 
Which poor Olola cherish'd, when a child, 
Came from the mountains, and, with earnest gaze, 
Seem'd as rememb'ring those departed days. 
When his tall neck he bent, with aspect bland, 
And lick'd, in silence, the caressing hand ! 

And now Anselmo, his pale brow inclln'd. 
The Warrior's relics, dust to dust, consign'd 
With Christian rites, and sung, on bending knee, 
•'Eternam paceji dona, Domine." 
Then, rising up, he clos'd the holy book. 
And lifting in the beam his lighted look, 
(The cross, Avith meekness, folded on his breast,) — 
"Here, too," he cried, "my bones in peace shall rest! 
Few years remain to me, and never more 
Shall I behold, O Spain, thy distant shore ! 

99 



SUNRISE. 

Here lay my bones, that the same tree may wave 
O'er the poor Christian's and the Indian's grave. 
Then may it — (when the sons of future days 
Shall hear our tale, and on the hillock gaze) — 
Then may it teach, that charity should bind, 
Where'er they roam, the brothers of mankmd ! 
The time shall come, when wildest tribes shall hear 
Thy voice, O Christ! and drop the slaught'ring spear. 



SUNRISE. 



'Tis dawn : — the distant Andes' rocky spires, 
One after one, have caught the orient fires. 
Where the dun condor shoots his upward flight, 
His wings are touch'd with momentary light. 
Meantime, beneath the mountains' glittering heads, 
A boundless ocean of grey vapour spreads. 
That o'er the champaign, stretching far below, 
Moves on, in cluster'd masses, rising slow. 
Till all the living landscape is display'd 
In various pomp of colour, light, and shade; 
Hills, forests, rivers, lakes, and level plain, 
Less'ning in sunshine to the southern main. 
The Llama's fleece fumes with ascending dew; 
The gem-like humming-birds their toils renew; 

100 




And see, where yonder stalks, in crimson pride. 

The tall flamingo, by the rivei''s side, — 

Stalks, in his richest plumage bright an-ay'd. 

With snowy neck superb, and legs of length'ning shade. 



101 



ROGERS. 



THE OLD HOUSE. 



Mauk yon old Mansion frowning thro' the trees, 
Whose hollow turret woos the whistling breeze. 
That casement, arch'd with i\7's brownest shade, 
First to these eyes the light of heaven convey'd. 
The mould'ring gateway shows the grass-grown court. 
Once the calm scene of many a simple sport ; 
When nature plcas'd, for life itself was new, 
And the heart promis'd what the foncy drcAv. 

See, through the fractur'd pediment reveal'd, 
Wliere moss inlays the rudely sculptur'd shield, 
The martin's old, hereditary nest — 
Long may the ruin spare its hallow' d guest! 

As jars the hinge, what sullen echoes call ! 
Oh haste, unfold the hospitable hall! 
That hall, where once in antiquated state, 
The chair of justice held the grave debate. 
Now stain'd with dews, -with cobwebs darkly hung, 
Oft has its roof with peals of rapture rung ; 
When round yon ample board, in due degree, 
We sweeten'd every meal with social glee. 
The heart's light laugh pursued the circling jest. 
And all was sunshine in each little breast. 
'Twas here we chas'd the slipper by the sound ; 
And turn'd the blind-fold hero round and round. 
'Twas here, at eve, we form'd our fairy ring; 
And Fancy fl utter' d on her wildest wing. 

102 




(tiants and genii claim'd each wondering ear; 
And or[)lian-sorrows drew the ready tear. 
Oft with the babes we wandei-'d in the wood. 
Or \icw*d the forest-feats of Robin Hood : 



MOTHER AND CHILD. 

Oft, fancy led, at midnight's fearful hour 

With startling step Ave scaFd the lonely tower ; 

O'er infant innocence to hang and weep, 

Murder' d by ruffian hands, Avhen sniUing in its sleep. 

As o'er the dusky furniture I bend. 

Each chair awakes the feelmgs of a friend. 

The storied arras, source of fond delight, 

AVith old achievements charms the wilder' d sight ; 

And stUl, with heraldry's rich hues imprest, 

On the dim windoAV glows the pictur'd crest. 

The screen unfolds its many-colour'd chart, 

The clock still points its moral to the heart. 

That faithful monitor 'twas heaven to hear, 

When soft it sjioke a promis'd pleasure near; 

And has its sober hand, its simple chime. 

Forgot to trace the feathei-'d feet of Time? 

The massive beam, with curious car\-ing A^T0ught, 

Whence the caged linnet sooth'd my pensive thought; 

Those muskets, cased with venerable rust ; 

Those once-lov'd forms, still breathing thro' their dust; 

Still from the frame, in mould gigantic cast, 

Starting to life — all whisper of the Past! 



MOTHER AND CHILD. 

The day arrives, the moment wish'd and fear'd : 
The child is born, by many a pang endear'd: 
And now, the Mother's ear has caught his cry ! 
Oh ! grant the cherub to her asking eye. 
He comes ! — she clasps him ! To her bosom prest, 
He drinks the balm of life, and drops to rest. 

Her by her smile how soon the Stranger knows ; 
How soon by his the glad discovery shows ! 
10-i 



ROGERS. 

As to her lips she lifts the lovely bo}-, 
Wliat answering looks of sympathy and joy ! 
He walks, he speaks. In many a broken word 
His wants, his wishes, and his griefs are heard ; 
And ever, ever to her lap he flies, 
\Vlien rosy Sleep comes on with sweet surprise. 
Lock'd in her arms, his arms across her flung, 
(That name most dear for ever on his tongue,) 
As with soft accents round her neck he clings, 
And, cheek to . cheek, her lulling song she sings. 
How blest to feel the beatings of his heart, 
Breathe his sweet breath, and kiss for kiss impart ; 
Watch o'er his slumbers like the brooding dove. 
And, if she can, exliaust a mother's love ! 

But soon a nobler task demands her care. 
Apart she joins his little hands in prayer, 
Tellmg of Him who sees in secret there : 
And now the volume on her knee has caught 
His wandering eye — now many a written thought 
Never to die, with many a lisping sweet. 
His moving, murmuring lips endeavour to repeat. 
Released, he chases the bright butterfly ; 
Oh, he would follow — follow through the sky ! 
Climbs the gaunt mastiff slumbering in his cham. 
And chides and buffets, clinging by the mane ; 
Then runs, and kneeling by the fountain-side, 
Sends his brave ship in triumph down the tide, 
A dangerous voyage ; or, if now he can. 
If now he wears the habit of a man. 
Flings off the coat so much his pride and pleasure. 
And, like a miser digging for his treasure. 
His tiny spade in his own garden plies. 
And in gi*een letters sees his name arise! 
Wliere'er he goes, for ever in her sight, 
She looks, and looks, and still with new delight. 



105 



AMELIA OPIE. 



THE ORPHAN BOY'S TALE. 



Stay, Lady, stay, for mercy's sake. 

And hear a helpless Orphan's tale : 
Ah! sure my looks must pity wake; 

'Tis want that makes my cheek so pale. 
Yet I was once a mother's pride. 

And my brave father's hope and joy; 
But in the Nile's proud fight he died — 

And I am now an orphan boy. 

Poor foolish child ! how pleased was I. 

When news of Nelson's victory came, 
Along the crowded streets to fly, 

And see the lighted windows flame ! 
To force me home my mother sought, 

She could not bear to see my joy; 
For with my father's life 'twas bought, 

And made me a poor orphan boy. 

The people's shouts were long and loud, — 

My mother, shudd'ring, closed her ears ; 
"Rejoice! rejoice!" still cried the crowd, — 

My mother answer'd with her tears. 
" Why are you crying thus," said I, 

" While others laugh and shout with joy ?" 
She kiss'd me — and, with such a sigh! 

She call'd me her poor oi'phan boy. 
lOG 




" What is an orphan boy f I cried, 

As in her face I look'cl and smiled ; 
My mother through her tears replied, 

"You'll know too soon, ill-fated child!" 
And now they've toll'd my mother's knell. 

And I'm no more a parent's joy, — 
O Lady, — I have learnt too well 

"What 'tis to be an orphan boy. 
107 



THE ORPHAN BOY'S TALE. 

Oh ! were I by your bounty fed ! — 

Nay, gentle Lady, do not chide, — 
Trust me, I mean to earn my bread ; 

The sailor's orphan boy has pride. 
Lady, you weep ! — ha ! — this to me ? 

You'll give me clothing, food, employ? 
Look down, dear parents ! look, and see 

Your happy, happy orphan boy. 



WHiLIAM SPENCER 
TO THE LADY ANNE HAMILTON. 

Too late I stay'd, forgive the crime, 
Unheeded flew the hours ; 

How noiseless falls the foot of Time 
That only treads on flowers! 

'VVliat eye with clear account remarks 

The ebbing of his glass. 
When all its sands are diamond sparks 

That dazzle as they pass! 

Ah ! who to sober measurement 
Time's happy swiftness brings, 

When birds of Paradise have lent 
Their plumage for its wings? 



108 



SPENCEE. 



WIFE, CHILDREN, AND FRIENDS. 

When the black-lettered list to the gods was presented 
(The list of what fate for each mortal intends). 

At the long string of ills a kind goddess relented, 

And slipped in three blessings — wife, children, and friends. 

In vain surly Pluto maintained he was cheated. 
For justice divine could not compass its ends; 

The scheme of man's penance he swore was defeated, 

For earth becomes heaven with — wife, children, and friends 

If the stock of our bliss is in stranger hands vested. 
The fund, ill-secured, oft in bankruptcy ends ; 

But the heart issues bills which are never protested, 

When drawTi on the firm of — wife, children, and friends. 

Though valour still glows in his life's dying embers. 
The death-wounded tar, who his colours defends, 

Drops a tear of regret as he dying remembers 

How bless'd was his home with — wife, children, and friends 

The soldier, whose deeds live immortal in story, 

"Wliom duty to far-distant latitudes sends. 
With transport would barter old ages of glory 

For one happy day with — wife, children, and friends. 

Though spice-breathing gales on his caravan hover, 
Though for him Arabia's fragrance ascends, 

The merchant still thinks of the woodbines that cover 

The bower where he sat A\'ith — wife, children, and friends. 

109 



WIFE, CHILDREN, AND FRIENDS. 

The day-spring of youth still unclouded by sorrow, 

Alone on itself for enjoyment depends ; 
But drear is the t^'ilight of age, if it borrow 

No warmth from the smile of^ — wife, children, and friends 

Let the breath of renown ever freshen and nourish 
The laurel which o'er the dead favourite bends ; 

O'er me wave the willow, and long may it flourish, 
Bedewed Avith the tears of — mfe, children, and friends. 

Let us drink, for my song, growing graver and graver, 

To subjects too solemn insensibly tends ; 
Let us drink, pledge me high, love and virtue shall flavour 

The glass which I fill to — Avife, children, and friends. 



110 



BYROX. 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 



My hair is grey, but not with years ; 

Nor grew it white 

In a single night, 
As men's have grown from sudden fears : 
My limbs are bow'd, though not Avith toil. 

But rusted with a vile repose, 
For they have been a dungeon's spoil, 

And mine has been the fate of those 
To whom the goodly earth and air 
Are bann'd, and barr'd — forbidden fare; 
But this was for my father's faith 
I sufFer'd chains and courted death ; 
That father perish'd at the stake 
For tenets he would not forsake ; 
And for the same his lineal race 
In darkness found a dwelling-place. 
We were seven — who now are one. 

Six in youth, and one in age, 
Finish'd as they had begun. 

Proud of Persecution's rage ; 
One in fii'C, and two in field, 
Theu' belief with blood have seal'd ; 
Dying as their father died, 
For the God their foes denied : 
Three were in a dungeon cast, 
Of whom this wreck is left the last. 
Ill ^ 



THE PKISONER OF CHILLON. 

There are seven pillars of Gothic mould, 
In Chillon's dungeons deep and old; 
There are seven columns, massy and grey, 
Dim with a dull imprison'd ray, — 
A sunbeam which hath lost its way, 
And through the crevice and the cleft 
Of the thick wall is fallen and left, 
Creeping o'er the floor so damp, 
Like a marsh's meteor lamp : 
And in each pillar there is a ring, 

And in each ring there is a chain ; — 
That iron is a cankering thing, 

For in these limbs its teeth remain, 
With marks that will not wear away, 
TlU I have done with this new day, 
Which now is painful to these eyes, 
Which have not seen the sun so rise 
For years — I cannot count them o'er ; 
I lost their long and heavy score 
When my last brother droop'd and died. 
And I lay living by his side. 



They chain'd us each to a column stone, 
And we were three — yet, each alone ; 
We could not move a single pace. 
We could not see each other's face. 
But with that pale and livid light 
That made us strangers in our sight ; 
And thus, together — yet apart, 
Fetter'd in hand, but jom'd in heart, 
'Twas still some solace, in the dearth 
Of the pure elements of earth, 
To hearken to each other's speech, 
And each turn comforter to each, 
With some new hope, or legend old, 
Or song heroically bold ; 
112 




But even these at length grow cohl. 
Our voices took a dreary tone, 
An echo of the dungeon stone, 

A grathig sound — not full and free, 
1 1 ;•, 



/ 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 

, As they of yOre were wont to be : 

It might be fancy — bnt to me 
They never sounded like our own. 



I was the cklest of the three, 

And to uphold and cheer the rest 
I ought to do — and did — my best ; 
And each did well in his degree. 

The youngest, whom my father loved 
Because our mother's brow was given 
To him — with eyes as blue as heaven, — 

For him my soul was sorely moved : 
And truly might it be distrest 
'I'o see such bird in such a nest ; 
For he was beautiful as day — 
(When day was beautiful to me 
As to young eagles, being free) — 
A polar day, which Avill not see 
A sunset till its summer's gone, 

Its sleepless summer of long light. 
The snow-clad offspring of the sun : 

And thus he was as pure and bright, 
And in his natural spirit gay, 
With tears for nought but others' ills, 
And then they flow'd like mountain rills. 
Unless he could assuage the woe 
Wliich he abhorr'd to view below. 



The other was as pure of mind. 
But form'd to combat Avith his kind; 
Strong in his frame, and of a mood 
Which 'gainst the world in war had stood. 
And perish'd in the foremost rank 

With joy : but not in chains to pine : 
His spirit wither'd with their clank ; 
114 



BYRON. 

I saw it silently decline — 

And so, perchance, in sooth, did mine 
But yet I forced it on to cheer 
Those relics of a home so dear. 
He was a hunter of the hills. 

Had follow'd there the deer and wolf; 

To him this dungeon was a gulf, 
And fettcr'd feet the worst of ills. 



Lake T^man lies by Chillon's walls: 
A thousand feet in depth below 
Its massy waters meet and flow; 
Thus much the fathom-line was sent 
From Chillon's snow-white battlement, 

Which round about the wave enthrals: 
A double dungeon wall and wave 
Have made — and like a living grave. 
Below the surface of the lake 
The dark vault lies wherein we lay, — 
We heard it ripple night and day; 

Sounduig o'er our heads it knock'd ; 
And I have felt the Avinter's spray 
Wash through the bars \A'hen winds wore lugh 
And wanton in the happy sky; 

And then the very rock hath roek'd. 

And I have felt it shake, unshock'd. 
Because I could have smiled to see 
The death that would have set me free. 



I said my nearer brother pin'd, 
I said his mighty heart declin'd ; 
He loath'd and put away his food ; 
It was not that 'twas coarse and rude, 
P^or M'C were used to hunter's fore, 
And for tlic like had little care : 
115 



THE PEISONER OF CHILLON. 

The milk drawn from the mountain goat 
Was changed for water from the moat, 
Our bread was such as captive's tears 
Have moisten'd many a thousand years, 
Since man first pent his fellow-men 
Like brutes vdthin an iron den ; — 
But Avhat were these to us or him? 
These wasted not his heart, or limb. 
My brother's soul was of that mould 
Which in a palace had grown cold, 
Had his free breathing been denied 
The range of the steep mountain's side. 
But why delay the truth? — He died. 
I saw, and could not. hold his head. 
Nor reach his dying hand — nor dead, — 
Though hard I strove, but strove in vain, 
To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. 
He died — and they unlock'd his chain. 
And scoop'd for him a shallow grave 
Even from the cold earth of our cave. 
I begg'd them, as a boon, to lay 
His corse in dust whereon the day 
Might shine — it was a foolish thought, 
But then within my brain it wrought. 
That even in death his freeborn breast 
In such a dungeon could not rest. 
I might have spared my idle prayer — 
They coldly laugh' d — and laid him there: 
The flat and turfless earth above 
The being we so much did love. 
His empty chain above it leant. 
Such murder's fitting monument ! 



But he, the favourite and the flower, 
Most cherish'd since his natal hour. 
His mother's image in fair face, 
UG 



BYRON. 

The infant love of all his race, 
His martyr'd father's dearest thought. 
My latest care, for whom I sought 
To hoard my life, that his might be 
Less wretched now, and one day free : 
lie too, who yet had held, untir'd, 
A spirit natural or inspir'd, 
He, too, was struck, and day l)y dav 
^V'as wither'd on the stalk away. 
Oh, God ! it is a fearful thing 
To see the human soul take wing 
In any shape, in any mood : — 
I've seen it rushing forth in blood, 
I've seen it on the breaking ocean 
Strive with a swoln convulsive motion, 
I've seen the sick and ghastly bed 
Of Sin delirious with its dread: 
But these were horrors — this was woe 
I^nmix'd mtli such — but sure and slow: 
He faded, and so calm and meek, 
So softly worn, so sweetly weak, 
So tearless, yet so tender — kind, 
And griev'd for those he left behind ; 
With all the while a cheek whose bloom 
AVas as a mockery of the tomb. 
Whose tints as gently sunk away 
As a departing rainbow's ray — 
An eye of most transparent light, 
That almost made the dungeon bright, , 
And not a word of murmur — not 
A gi'oan o'er his untimely lot, — 
A little talk of better days, 
A little hope — my own to raise, 
For I was sunk in silence — lost 
In this last loss, of all the most ; 
And then the sighs he would suppress 
Of fainting nature's feebleness, 
117 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 

More slowly drawn, grew less and less : 

I listen'd, but I could not hear — 

1 call'd, for I was wild Avith fear ; 

I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread 

Would not be thus admonished ; 

I call'd, and thought I heard a sound — 

1 bi;rst my chain with one strong bound, 

And rush'd to him : I found him not ; 

/ only stirr'd in this black spot, 

/ only liv'd — / only drew 

The accursed breath of dungeon dew ; 

The last — the sole — the dearest link 

Between me and the eternal brink, 

Which bound me to my failing race, 

Was broken in this fatal place. 

One on the earth, and one beneath — 

My brothers — both had ceas'd to breathe : 

I took that hand which lay so still, 

Alas ! my own was full as chill ; 

I had not strength to stir, or strive, 

But felt that I was still alive — 

A frantic feeling, when we know 

That what we love shall ne'er be so. 

I know not wdiy 

I could not die ; 
1 had no earthly hope — but faith, 
And that forbade a selfish death. 



What next befel me then and there 
I know not well — I never knew ; 
First came the loss of light, and air, 

And then of darkness too : 
I had no thought, no feeling — none — 
Among the stones I stood a stone, 
And was, scarce conscious what I wist, 
As shrubless crags within the mist ; 
118 



BYRON. 

For all was blank, and bleak, and grey : 
It was not night — it was not day. 
It was not even the dungcon-liglit, 
So hateful to my heavy sight, 
But vacancy absorbing space. 
And fixedness — without a place 
There were no stars — no earth — no time — 
No check — no change — no good — no crime- 
But silence, and a stirless breath 
Which neither was of life nor deatli ; 
A sea of stagnant idleness, 
IJIind, boundless, mute, and motionless! 

A light broke in upon my brain — 

It was the carol of a bird ; 
It ceas'd, and then it came again, 

The sweetest song ear ever heard ; 
And mine was thankfid till my eyes 
linn over with the glad sur))rise. 
And they that moment could not see 
I was the mate of misery ; 
But then by dull degrees came back 
My senses to their wonted track : 
I saw the dungeon walls and floor 
Close slowly round me as before, 
I saw the glimmer of the sun 
Creeping as it before hud done. 
But through the crevice where it came 
That bird was perch'd, as fond and tame 

And tamer than upon the tree ; 
A lovely bird with azure wings, 
And song that said a thousand tldngs. 

And seem'd to say them all for me ! 
I never saw its like before, 
I ne'er shall sec its likeness more : 
It seem'd, like me, to want a mate, 
liut was not half so desolate, 
119 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 

And it was come to love me wlicn 
None lived to love me so again, 
And cheering from my dungeon's biink, 
Had brought me back to feel and think. 
I know not if it late were free, 

Or broke its cage to perch on mine. 
But knowing well captivity, 

Sweet bird ! I could not wish for thine ! 
Or if it were, in ^a inged guise, 
A visitant from Paradise ; 

I'^or — Heaven forgive that thought! — the while 
AMiich made me both to Aveep and smile, 
I sometimes deem'd that it might be 
My brother's soul come down to me ; 
But then at last away it flew, 
And then 'twas mortal — well I knew, 
For he would never thus have flown. 
And left me twice so doubly lone, — 
Lone — as the corse within its shroud ; 
Lone — as a solitary cloud, 

A single cloud on a summer day, 
While all the rest of heaven is clear, 
A frown upon the atmosphere. 
That hath no business to appear 

When skies are blue, and earth is gay. 



A kind of change came in my fate, 
My keepers grew compassionate ; 
I know not what had made them so. 
They Avere inur'd to sights of woe, 
But so it was : — my broken chain 
With links unfasten'd did remain, 
And it Avas liberty to stride 
Along my cell from side to side, 
,Vnd up and down, and then atliAA'art, 
And tread it over every part ; 
120 



13Y110N. 

And round the pillars one by one, 
lleturning where my walk begun, 
Avoiding only, as I trod, 
My brothers' graves without a sod ; 
For if I thought with heedless tread 
My step profan'd their lowly bed, 
My breath came gaspingly and thick, 
And my crush'd heart fell blind and sicl 



I made a footing in the wall. 

It Avas not therefrom to escape. 
For I had buried one and all, 

Who loved me in a human shape ; 
And the whole earth would henceforth be 
A wider prison unto me : 
No child — no sire — no kin had I, 
No partner in my misery. 
I thought of this, and I Avas glad. 
For thought of them had made me mad; 
But I was curious to ascend 
To my barr'd windows, and to bend 
Once more, upon the mountains high, 
The (piiet of a loving eye. 



I saw them — and they were the same. 
They were not changed like me in frame 
I saw their thousand years of snow 
On high — their wide long lake below. 
And the blue Rhone in fullest flow ; 
I heard the torrents leap and gn^-li 
O'er channell'd rock and broken bush ; 
I saw the white-wall'd distant town. 
And whiter sails go skimming down ; 
And then there was a little isle, 
Which in my very face did smile, 
121 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 

The only one in view ; 
A small green isle, it seem'd no more, 
Scarce broader than my dungeon floor. 
But in it there were three tall trees, 
And o'er it blew the mountain breeze. 
And by it there were waters flowing. 
And on it there were young flowers growing, 

Of gentle breath and hue. 
The fish swam by the castle wall. 
And they seem'd joyous each and all ; 
The eagle rode the rising blast, 
Methought he never flew so fast 
As then to me he seem'd to fly; 
And then new tears came in my eye, 
And I felt troubled — and Avould fain 
I had not left my recent chain ; 
And when I did descend again, 
The darkness of my dim abode 
Fell on me as a heavy load ; 
It was as is a new-dug grave, 
Closing o'er one we sought to save, — 
And yet my glance, too much opprest. 
Had almost need of such a rest. 



It might be months, or years, or days, — 

I kept no count — I took no note ; 
I had no hope my eyes to raise. 

And clear them of their dreary mote ; — 
At last men came to set me free, 

I ask'd not why, and reck'd not where : 
It was at length the same to me, 
Fetter'd or fetterless to be, 

I learn'd to love despair. 
And thus, when they appear' d at last, 
And all my bonds aside were cast, 
These heavy Avails to me had grown 
122 



BYRON. 

A hermitage — and all my own! 
And half 1 felt as they were come 
To tear me from a second home : 
With spiders I had friendship made, 
And watch'd them in their sullen trade. 
Had seen the mice by moonlight play, 
And why should I feel less than they? 
We were all inmates of one place, 
And I, the monarch of each race, 
Had power to kill — yet, strange to tell ! 
In quiet we had learn'd to dwell — 
My very chains and I grew friends, 
So much a long communion tends 
To make us what we are : — even I 
Kegain'd my freedom with a sigh. . 



THE DREAM. 



Our life is twofold : Sleep hath its own world, 
A boundary between the things misnam'd 
Death and existence : Sleep hath its own world, 
And a wide realm of wild reality, 
And dreams in their development have breath, 
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy ; 
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts. 
They take a weight from off our waking toils, 
They do divide our being; they become 
A portion of ourselves as of our time, 
And look like heralds of eternity; 
They pass like spirits of the past — they speak 
Like sil>yls of the future ; they have poAver— 

123 



THE DREAM. 

The tyranny of pleasure and of pain ; 
They make us what we were not — what they Avill, 
And shake us with the vision that's gone by, 
The dread of vanish'd shadows — Are they so? 
Is not the past all shadow? AVhat are they? 
Creations of the mind? — The mind can make 
Substance, and people planets of its own 
With beings brighter than have been, and give 
A breath to forms that can outlive all flesh. 
I would recall a vision which I dream' d 
Perchance in sleep— for in itself a thought, 
A slumbering thought, is capable of years, 
And curdles a long life into one hour. 



I saw two beings in the hues of youth 
Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill, 
Green and of mild declivity, the last 
As 'twere the cape of a long ridge of such, 
Save that thei-e was no sea to lave its base, 
But a most living landscape, and the wave 
Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of men 
Scatter'd at intervals, and wreathing smoke 
Arising from such rustic roofs ; — the hill 
Was crown'd with a peculiar diadem 
Of trees, in circular array, so fix'd 
Not by the sport of nature, but of man : 
These two, a maiden and a youth, were there 
Gazing — the one on all that was beneath, 
Fair as herself — but the boy gazed on her; 
And both were young, and one was beautiful: 
And both were young — yet not alike in youth. 
As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge. 
The maid Avas on the eve of womanhood ; 
The boy had fewer summers, but his heart 
Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye 
There was but one beloved face on earth, 

124 




And that was shining on him ; he had lonkM 
TTpon it till it could not pass away ; 
lie had no breath, no being, but in hers : 
She was his voice ; he did not speak to her, 
But trembled on her words: she was his sighl, 
12.-) 



THE DREAM. 

For his eye follow'd hers, and saw with, hers, 

Which colour'd all his objects : — he had ceas'd 

To live within himself; she was his lite, 

The ocean to the river of his thoughts, 

AVhich terminated all ; upon a tone, 

A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow, 

And his cheek change tempestuously — his heart 

Unknowing of its cause of agony. 

But she in these fond feelings had no share : 

Her sighs were not for him; to her he was 

Even as a brother — but no more ; 'twas much. 

For brotherless she was, save in the name 

Her infant friendship had bestow'd on him ; 

Herself the solitary scion left 

Of a time-honour'd race. It was a name 

Which pleas'd him, and yet pleas'd him not — and why ? 

Time taught him a deep answer — when she loved 

Another; even nozv she loved another, 

And on the summit of that hill she stood. 

Looking afar if yet her lover's steed 

Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew. 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
There was an ancient mansion, and before 
Its walls there was a steed caparison'd : 
Within an antique Oratory stood 
The Boy of whom I spake ; he was alone, 
And pale, and pacing to and fro: anon 
He sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced 
Words which I could not guess of; then he lean'd 
His bow'd head on his hands, and shook as 'twere 
With a convulsion — then arose again. 
And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear 
What he had written, but he shed no tears. 
And he did calm himself, and fix his In-ow 
Into a kind of quiet : as he paus'd, 

12G 



BYRON. 

The Liicly of his love re-enter'd there ; 

Slie was serene and smiling then, and yet 

She knew she was by him belov'd, — she knew, 

For quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart 

Was darken'd with her shadow, and she saw 

That he was wretched, but she saw not all. 

He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp 

He took her hand; a moment o'er his face 

A tablet of unutterable thoughts 

Was traced, and then it ftided, as it came; 

He dropp'd the hand he held, and Avith slow step^ 

Rctir'd, but not as bidding her adieu. 

For they did part with mutual smiles; he pass'd 

From out the massy gate of that old Hall, 

And, mounting on his steed, he went his way; 

And ne'er repass'd that hoaiy threshold more. 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The Boy was sprung to manhood: in the wilds 
Of fiery climes he made himself a home, 
And his soul drank their sunbeams: he was girt 
With strange and dusky aspects; he was not 
Himself like what he had been ; on the sea 
And on the shore he was a wanderer; 
There was a mass of many images 
Ci'owded like waves upon me, but he was 
A part of all ; and in the last he lay 
Reposing from the noontide sultriness, 
Couch'd among fallen columns, in the shade 
Of ruin'd walls that had surviv'd the names 
Of those who rear'd them ; by his sleeping side 
Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds 
Were fasten'd near a fountain ; and a man 
Clad in a flowing garb did watch the while. 
While many of his tribe slumber'd around : 
And they were canopied by the blue sky, 

127 



THE DREAM. 

So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful, 
That God alone was to be seen in heaven. 



-V change came o'er the sj)irifc of my dream. 

The Lady of his love vi^as wed with one 

Who did not love her better : — in her home, 

A thousand leagues from his, — her native home, 

She dwelt, begirt with growing Infancy, 

Daughters and sons of Beauty, — but behold ! 

Upon her face there was the tint of grief, 

The settled shadow of an inward strife, 

Aiid an unquiet drooping of the eye. 

As if its lid were charg'd with mished tears. 

WTiat could her grief be? — She had all she loved, 

And he who had so loved her was not there 

To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish. 

Or ill-repress' d affliction, her pure thoughts. 

What could her grief be? She had loved him not, 

Not given him cause to deem himself beloved, 

Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd 

Upon her mind — a spectre of the past. 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The Wand'rer was return'd. — I saw him stand 
Before an altar — with a gentle bride ; 
Her face was fair, but was not that which made 
The starlight of his boyhood ; — as he stood 
Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came 
The self-same aspect, and the quivering shock 
That in the antique Oratory shook 
1 1 is bosom in its solitude ; and then — 
As in that hour — a moment o'er his lace 
The tablet of unuttei-able thoughts 
Was traced— and then it faded as it came, 
And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke 

128 



BYRON. 

The fitting vows, but lieard not his own words, 

And all things reel'd around him; he could see 

Not that which was, nor that Avhich should have been- 

But the old mansion, and the accustom'd hall. 

And the remember'd chambers, and the place. 

The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade,— 

All things pertaining to that place and hour, 

And her who was his destiny, came back 

And thrust themselves between him and the light: 

What business had they there at such a time? 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The Lady of his love ; — oh ! she was changed, 
As by the sickness of the soul ; her mind ■ 
Had wander'd from its dwelling, and her eyes, 
They had not their own lustre, but the look 
Which is not of the earth ; she was become 
The queen of a fantastic realm ; her thoughts 
Were combinations of disjointed things ; 
And forms impalpable and unperceiv'd 
Of others' sight familiar were to hers. 
And this the world calls phrenzy ; but the wise 
Have a far deeper madness, and the glance 
Of melancholy is a fearful gift ; 
What is it but the telescope of truth? 
Which strips the distance of its fantasies, 
And brings life near in utter nakedness, 
Making the cold reality too real! 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The Wand'rer was alone as heretofore; 
The beings Avhich surrounded him Avere gone. 
Or were at war with him; he Avas a mark 
P^or blight and desolation, compass' d round 
With Hatred and Contention ; Pain was mix'd 

J2'J 



THE DREAM. 

In all which was serv'd up to liira, until. 

Like to the Pontic monarch of old day?, 

He fed on poisons, and they had no power, 

But were a kmd of nutriment ; he lived 

Through that which had been death to many men, 

And made him friends of mountains : with the stars 

And the quick Spirit of the Universe 

He held his dialogues ; and they did teach 

To him the magic of their mysteries. 

To him the book of Night was open'd wide, 

And voices from the deep abyss reveal'd 

A marvel and a secret. Be it so. 



My dream was past; it had no further change. 

It was of a strange order, that the doom 

Of these two creatures should be thus traced oui 

Almost like a reality — the one 

To end in madness — both in misery. 



130 



r^itisir?' 




\ii 




SHELLEY. 



WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES. 



The sun Is warm, the sky is clear. 

The waves arc dancing fast and briglil. 
IMuo isles and snowy mountains wear 



WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLESS. 

The purple noon's transparent light. 
The breath of the moist earth is light 

Around its unexpanded buds ; 
Like many a voice of one delight, 

The winds, the birds, the ocean floods, 
The city's voice itself is soft, like Solitude's. 

I see the deep's un trampled floor 

With green and purple sea-weeds stroAvn ; 
I see the waves upon the shore, 

Like light dissolv'd in star-showers, thrown. 
I sit upon the sands alone, 

The lightning of the noon-tide ocean 
Is flashing round me, and a tone 

Arises from its measur'd motion. 
How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion. 

Alas ! I have nor hope nor health, 

Nor peace within, nor calm around, 
Nor that content, surpassing Avealth, 

The sage in meditation found, 
And walk'd with inward glory crown'd — 

Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure. 
Others I see whom these surround — 

Smiling they live, and call life pleasure; — 
To me that cup has been dealt in another measure. 

Yet now despair itself is mild, 

Even as the winds and waters are ; 
I could lie down like a tired child, 

And weep away the life of care 
Which I have borne, and yet must bear. 

Till death, like sleep, might steal on mc. 
And I might feel in the warm air 

My check grow wet, and hear the sea 
Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony. 
132 



SHELLEY. 

Some might lament that I was cokl, 

As I, when this sweet day is gone, 
Whicli my lost heart, too soon grown old, 

Insults with this untimely moan : — 
They might lament, — for I am one 

Whom men love not — and yet regret ; 
Unlike this day, which, when the sun 

Shall on its stainless glory set, 
Will linger, though enjoy'd, like joy in memory yet. 



TO NIGHT. 



Swiftly walk over the western wave, 

Spirit of Night ! 
Out of the misty eastern cave. 
Where, all the long and lone daylight, 
Thou wovcst dreams of joy and fear. 
Which make thee terrible and dear, — 

Swift be thy flight! 

Wrap thy form in a mantle grov. 

Star-in wi'ought ! 
Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day, 
Kiss her until she be wearied out, 
Then wander o'er city, and sea, and sand. 
Touching all with thine opiate wand — 

Come, long-sought ! 

When I arose and saw the DaAvn, 

I sigh'd for thee ; 
AVhcn light rode high, and the dew was gone, 
133 



TO NIGHT. 

And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, 
And the weary Day turn'd to his rest, 
Lingering like an unloved guest, 
I sigh'd for thee. 

Thy brother Death came, and cried, 

Wouldst thou me? 
Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, 

Murmur'd like a noon-tide bee, 
Shall I nestle near thy side? 
Wouldst thou me? And I replied, 

No, not thee ! 

Death will come when thou art dead, 

Soon, too soon — 
Sleep will come when thou art fled: 
Of neither would I ask the boon, 
I ask of thee, beloved Night — 
Swift be thine approaching flight, 

Come soon, — soon! 



SPRING. 



O Spring! of hope, and love, and youth, and gladness, 
VVhite-wing'd emblem ! brightest, best, and fairest ! 
Whence comest thou, when with dark Winter's sadness 
The tears that fade in sunny smiles thou sharest ? 
Sister of joy ! thou art the child who wearest 
Thy mother's dying smile, tender and sweet; 
Thy mother Autumn, for whose grave thou bearest 
Fresh flowers, and beams like flowers, with gentle feet 
Disturbing not the leaves which are her Avinding-sheet. 

134 




KEATS. 



ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. 



My heart ache?, and a ilrowsy numbness pains 
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunl- 



no 



ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. 

Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 

One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk : 
'Tis not through en^y of thy happy lot, 
But being too happy in thy happiness, — 
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, 
In some melodious plot 
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, 
Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 



O for a di-aught of vintage, that hath been 

Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth. 
Tasting of Flora and the country-green, 

Dance, and Provencal song, and sun-burnt mirth ! 
O for a beaker full of the warm South, 
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrenc, 
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, 
And purple-stained mouth ! 
That I might drink, and leave the Avorld unseen, 
Aud with thee fade away into the forest dim : 

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 

What thou among the leaves hast never known, 
The weariness, the fever, and the fret. 

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan. 
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs. 

Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies 
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow, 
And leaden-eyed despairs ; 
AYhere Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes. 
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. 

Away! away! for I will fly to thee, 

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, 

But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 

Though the dull brain perplexes and retards : 
13G 



KEATS. 

Already with thee ! tender is the night, 

And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, 
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays ; 
But here there is no light, 
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown 
Through Acrdurous glooms and winding mossy way: 



1 cannot see Avhat flowers arc at my feet, 

Nor Avhat soft incense hangs upon the boughs, 
Hut, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet 

Wherewith the seasonable month endows 
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree Avild ; 
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine ; 
Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves ; 
And mid-May's eldest child, 
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, 

The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. 



Darkling I listen ; and, for many a time 

I have been half in love with easeful Death, 
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, 

To take into the air my quiet breath; 
Now more than ever seems it rich to die, 
To cease upon the midnight with no pain, 
A^liile thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad 
In such an ecstasy! 
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain 
To thy high requiem become a sod. 



Thou wast not born for death, immortal r>ird ! 

No hungry generations tread thee down ; 
The voice I hear this passing night was heard 

In ancient days by emperor and c1o's\ti : 
137 



ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. 

Perhaps the self-same song that found a path 

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for honu' 
She stood ui tears amid the alien corn ; 
The same that ofttimes hath 
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam 
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. 



F'orlorn ! the very word is like a bell 

To toll me back from thee to my sole self! 
Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well 
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. 
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades 
Past the near meadows, over the stUl stream, 
Up the hill-side ; and now 'tis buried deep 
In the next valley-glades : 
Was it a vision, or a waking dream? 

Fled is that music ; — do I Avake or sleep ? 




138 




COLERIDGE. 

LOVE. 

All thoughts, all passions, all delights, 
Whatever stii-s this mortal frame, 
139 



LOVE. 

All are but ministers of Love, 
And feed his sacred flame. 

Oft in my waking dreams do I • 
Live o'er again that happy hour, 
When midway on the mount I lay 
Beside the ruin'd tower. 

The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene, 
Had blended with the lights of eve ; 
And she Avas there, my hope, my joy, 
My own dear Genevieve ! 

She lean'd against the armed man, 
The statue of the armed knight ; 
She stood and listen' d to my lay 
Amid the lingering light. 

Few sorrows hath she of her own, 

My hope ! my joy ! my Genevieve ! 

She loves me best, whene'er I sing 

The songs that make her grieve. 

I played a soft and doleful air, 
I sang an old and moving story — 
An old rude song that suited well 
That ruin wild and hoary. 

She listen'd with a flitting blush, 
With downcast eyes, and modest grace ; 
For well she knew, I could not choose 
But gaze upon her face. 

I told her of the Knight that Avore 
Upon his shield a burning brand ; 
And that for ten long years he Avooed 
The Lady of the Land. 
140 



COLERIDGE. 

I told her how he pined : and, ah ! 
The low, the deep, the pleading tone, 
With which I sang another's love. 
Interpreted my own. 

She listen'd with a flitting blush, 
With downcast eyes, and modest grace ; 
And she forgave me that I gazed 
Too fondly on her face! 

But when I told the cruel scorn 
Which crazed this bold and lovely Knight, 
And that he cross'd the mountain-woods, 
Nor rested day nor night ; 

That sometimes from the savage den, 
Aiid sometimes from the darksome shade. 
And sometimes starting up at once 
In green and sunny glade, — 

There came, and look'd him in the face, 
An angel beautiful and bright ; 
And that he knew it was a Fiend, 
This miserable Knight ! 

And that, unknoAving what he did, 
He leaped amid a muixlerous band. 
And saved from outrage worse than death 
The Lady of the Land ; 

And how she wept and clasp'd his knees, 
And how she tended him in vain — 
And ever strove to expiate 

The scorn that crazed his brain ; 

And that she nursed him in a cave ; 
And how his madness went away 
When on the yellow forest-leaves 
A dying man he lay ; 
141 



LOVE. 

His dying words — but when I reached 
That tenderest strain of all the ditty. 
My faltering voice and pausing harp 
Disturbed her soul with pity ! 

All impulses of soul and sense 
Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve, 
The music and the doleful tale, 
The rich and balmy eve ; 

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope. 
An undistinguishable throng ; 
And gentle wishes long subdued, 
Subdued and cherish'd long! 

She wept with pity and delight, 
She blushed with love and virgin shame ; 
And, like the murmur of a dream, 
I heard her breathe my name. 

Her bosom heaved — she stept aside ; 
As conscious of my look, she stept — 
Then suddenly, with timorous eye 
She fled to me and Avcpt. 

She half inclosed me with her arms. 
She pressed me with a meek embrace ; 
And, bending back her head, looked up 
And gazed upon my face. 

'Twas partly love, and partly fear, 
And partly 'twas a bashful art 
That I might rather feel, than see, 
The swelling of her heart. 

I calm'd her fears ; and she was calm, 
And told her love with virgin pride ; 
And so I won my Genevieve, 
My bright and beauteous. Bride ! 
142 




WOEDSWORTH. 



THE GLORY OF IMAGINATION. 



The Shepherd-lad, that in the sunshme carve?;. 
On the gi-ecn turf, a dial — to divide 
The silent hours ; and who to that report 
Can portion out his pleasures, and adapt, 
Throughout a long and lonely summer's day. 
His round of pastoral duties, is not left 
AVith less intelligence for moral things 
Of gravest import. Early he perceives, 
Within himself, a measure and a rule. 
Which to the sun of truth he can apply. 
That shines for him, and shines for all mankind. 
Experience daily fixing his regards 
143 



A CLOUD PICTUKE. 

On Nature's wants, he knows how few they are. 
And where they lie, how answer'd and appeas'd : 
This knowledge ample recompense affords 
For manifold privations ; he refers 
His notions to this standard ; on this rock 
Rests his desires; and hence, in after life, 
Soul-strengthening patience and sublime content. 
Imagination — not permitted here 
To waste her powers, as in the Avorldling's mind. 
On fickle pleasures, and superfluous cares, 
And trivial ostentation — is left free 
And puissant to range the solemn walks 
Of time and nature, girded by a zone 
That, while it binds, invigorates and supports- 
Acknowledge, then, that Avhether by the side 
Of his poor hut, or on the mountain-top, 
Or in the cultur'd field, a Man so bred 
(Take from him what you will upon the score 
Of ignorance or illusion) lives and breathes 
For noble purposes of mind : his heart 
Beats to th' heroic song of ancient days ; 
His eye distinguishes, his soul creates. 



A CLOUD PICTURE. 

So was he lifted gently from the ground, 

And with their freight homeward the shepherds mov'd 

Through the dull mist, I following — Avhen a step, 

A single step, that freed me from the skirts 

Of the blind vapour, open'd to my view 

Cxlory beyond all glory ever seen 

By waking sense, or by the dreaming soul ! 

Th' appearance, instantaneously disclos'd, 



WORDSWORTH. 

Wan of a mighty city — boldly say 

A wilderness of building, sinking far 

And self-withdrawn into a boundless depth, 

Far sinking into splendoiu' — without end ! 

Fabric it seem'd of diamond and of gold, 

With alabaster domes and silver spires, 

And blazing terrace upon terrace, high 

Uplifted : here, serene pavilions bright, 

In avenues disposed ; there, towers begirt 

With battlements that on their i-estless fronts 

Bore stars — illumination of all gems! 

By earthly nature had ih' effect been wrought 

Tr])on the dark materials of the storm 

Now [)acified ; on them, and on the coves 

And mountain-steeps and summits, whercunlo 

The vapours had receded, taking there 

Their station under a cerulean sky. 

Oh, 'twas an unimaginable sight ! — 

Clouds, mists, streams, Avatcry rocks, and emerald turf. 

Clouds of all tincture, rocks and sapphire sky. 

Confus'd, commingled, mutually inflanfd, 

Molten together, and composing thus. 

Each lost in each, that marvellous arra}' 

Of temple, palace, citadel, and huge 

Fantastic pomp of structure without name. 

In fleecy folds voluminous cnwrapp'd. 

Right in the midst, where interspace appeared 

Of open court, an object like a throne 

Under a shining canopy of state 

Stood fix'd ; and fix'd resemblances were seen 

To implements of ordinary use. 

But vast in size, in substance glorified ; 

Such as by Hebrew Prophets Avere beheld 

In vision — forms uncouth of mightiest power 

For admiration and mysterious awe. 

This little Vale, a dwelling-place of Man, 

Lay low beneath my feet; 'twas visible — 

145 K 



DION. 

I saw not, but I felt that it was there. 

That A^'hich I saw was the reveal'd abode 

Of Spirits in beatitude : my heart 

Swell'd in my breast. — " I have been dead," I cried, 

"And now I live! Oh! wherefore do I live?" 

And with that pang I pray'd to be no more ! 



DION. 



(SEE PLUTARCH.) 



Serexe, and fitted to embrace, 
Where'er he turn'd, a swan-like grace 
Of haughtiness without pretence, 
And to unfold a still magnificence, 
Was princely Dion, in the power 
And beauty of his happier hour. 
And Avhat pure homage t/ien did wait 
On Dion's virtues, while the lunar beam 
Of Plato's genius, from its lofty sphere. 
Fell round him in the gi-ove of Academe, 
Softening their inbred dignity austere — 

That he, not too elate 

With self-sufficing solitude, 
But with majestic lowliness endued, 
iSIight in the univer.«al bosom reign. 
And from afl"ectionate observance gain 
Help, under every change of adverse fote. 

Five thousand warriors — O the rapturous day ! 
Each croAvn'd with flowers, and arm'd with spear and shield. 
Or ruder Aveapon A\'hich their course might yield, 
To Syracuse advance in bright array. 

146 



WORDSWORTH. 

Who leads them on ? The anxious people see 

Long-exiled Dion marching at their head ; 

He also croWn'd with flowers of Sicily, 

And in a white, far-beaming corslet clad ! 

Pure transport, undisturb'd by doubt or fear, 

The gazers feel ; and, rushing to the plain, 

Salute those strangers as a holy train, 

Or blest procession (to the Immortals dear), 

That brought their precious liberty again. 

Lo ! Avhen the gates are enter'd, on each hand, 

Down the long street, rich goblets liird with Avine 

In seemly order stand. 
On tables set, as if for rites divine; — 
And, as the great Deliverer marches by, 
He looks on festal ground with fruits bcstrown ; 
And flowers are on his person thro^Aii 

In boundless prodigality ; 
Nor doth the general voice abstain from prayer. 
Invoking Dion's tutelary care, 
As if a very Deity he were ! 

Mourn, hUls and groves of Attica! — and mourn 
Ilissus, bending o'er thy classic urn ! 
Mourn, and lament for him whose spirit dreads 
Your once sweet memory, studious walks, and shades ! 
For him who to divinity aspired. 
Not on the breath of popular applause, 
But througli dependence on the sacred laws 
Framed in the schools where Wisdom dwelt retired, 
Intent to trace th' ideal path of right 

(More fair than heaven's broad causeway paved with stars) 
Which Dion learn'd to measure with sublime delight ; 
But he hath overleap'd th' eternal bars ; 
And, following guides whose craft holds no consent 
With aught that breathes th' ethereal element, 
Hath stain'd the robes of civil power with blood 
Fnjustly shed, though for the public good. 

147 



DION. 

Whence doubts that cnme too late, and wishes vain, 

Hollow excuscf^, and triumphant pain ; 

And oft his cogitations sink as low 

As, through the abysses of a joyless heart, 

The heaviest plummet of despair can go — 

But whence that sudden check ? that fearful start ? 

He hears an uncouth sound — 

Anon his lifted eyes 
Saw, at a long-drawn gallery's dusky bound, 
A Shape of more than mortal size 
And hideous aspect, stalking round and round I 

A woman's garb the phantom wore, 

And swiftly swept the marble floor — 

Like Auster Avhii'ling to and fro, 

His force on Caspian foam to try; 
Or Boreas when he scours the snow 
That skins the plains of Thessaly, 
Or when aloft on Mtenalus he stops 
His flight, 'mid eddying pine-tree tops! 

So, but from toil less sign of profit reaping. 
The sullen Spectre to her purpose bow'd. 

Sweeping — vehemently sweeping — 
No pause admitted, no design avow'd ! 
"'Avaunt, inexplicable guest! avaunt!" 
Exclaim'd the Chieftain — "let me rather see 
The coronal that coiling vipers make ; 
The torch that flames with many a lurid flake. 
And the long train of doleful pageantry 
Which they behold, whom vengeful P\iries haunt ; 
Wlio, while they struggle from the scourge to flee. 
Move where the blasted soil is not unworn. 
And, in their anguish, bear what other minds have borne!" 

But Shapes that come not at an earthly call. 
Will not depart when mortal voices bid ; 
Lords of the visionary eye, whose lid, 

148 



WORDSWORTH. 

Once raised, remains aghast, and will not fall ! 
Ye gods, thought he, that servile Implement 

Obeys a mystical intent! 
Your Minister would brush away 
The spots that to my soul adhere; 
But should She labour night and day, 
They will not, cannot disappear; 
Whence angry perturbations, — and that look 
Which Jio philosophy can brook! 

Ill-fated Chief! there are whose hopes are built 

Upon the ruins of thy glorious name; 

Who, through the portal of one moment's guilt. 

Pursue thee with their deadly aim! 

O matchless perfidy! portentous lust 

Of monstrous crime ! that horror-striking blado. 

Drawn in defiance of the gods, hath laid 

The noble Syracusan low in dust! 

Shudder'd the Avails— the marble city wept— 

And sj'lvan places hcav'd a pensive sigh ; 

P>ut in calm peace th' appointed Victim slept. 

As he had foll'n in magnanimity; 

Of spirit too capacious to require 

That Destiny her course should change ; too just 

To his own native greatness to desire 

That wretched boon, days lengthen'd by mistrust. 

So were the hopeless troubles, that involved 

The soul of Dion, instantly dissolved. 

Releas'd from life, and cares of princely state, 

He left this moral grafted on his Fate : — 

"Him only pleasure leads, and peace attends, 

Him, only him, the shield of Jove defends, 

Wliose means are fair and spotless as his ends." 



149 



INCIDENT AT BRUGES. 



INCIDENT AT BRUGES. 

In Bruges town is many a street 

Whence busy life hath fled; 
^\^lere, without hurry, noiseless feet 

The grass-growai pavement tread. 
There heard we, halting in the shade 

Flung from a convent-tower, 
A harp that tuneful prelude made 

To a voice of thrilling power. 

The measure, simple truth to tell, 

Was fit for some gay throng ; 
Though from the same grim turret fell 

The shadow and the song. 
lYhen silent were both voice and chords, 

The strain seem'd doubly dear, 
Yet sad as sweet, — for Enylish words 

Had fall'n upon the ear. 

It was a breezy hour of eve ; 

And pinnacle and spire 
Quiver'd and seem'd almost to heave 

Cloth'd with innocuous fire ; 
But, where Ave stood, the setting sun 

Show'd little of his state; 
And, if the glory reach'd the Nun, 

'Twas through an iron grate. 

Not always is the heart unwise, 

Nor pity idly borne. 
If even a passing Stranger sighs 

For them who do not mourn. 
150 




Sad is thy doom, self-solaced dove, 
Captive, whoe'er thou be ! 

Oh ! what is beauty, Avliat is love, 
And opening life to thee ? 



Such feeling press'd upon the soul, 

A feeling sanctified 
By one soft trickling tear that stole 

From the Maiden at my side : 
Less tribute could she pay than this, 

Borne gaily o'er the sea, 
Fresh from the beauty and the bliss 

Of English liberty? 
151 



A JEWISH I'AMILY. 



A JEWISH FAMILY. 



IN A SMALL VALLKY Ol'l'O.SITI': ST. GOAK, UPON TIIK IMIINK 



(tenuis of Kapliael ! if tliy wings 

Might boar thee to this glen, 
With liiitliful memory left of things 

To pencil dear and pen, 
Thou wouldst forego tlie neighbouring llh'uu 

And all his innjesty — 
A studious forelicad to incline 

O'er this poor IJunily. 

The Mother — her tliou must have seen, 

In spirit, ere she came 
To dwell these rifted rocks between, 

Or found on earth a name ; 
An image, too, of lliat sweet Boy 

TJiy iiisi)irations give — 
Of pluyfidness, and love, and joy. 

Predestined lK^re to live. 

Downcast, or sliooting glances far, 

How beautiful his eyes. 
That blend the nature of the star 

With that of summer skies ! 
I speak as if of sense beguil'd ; 

Uncounted months are gone. 
Yet am I with the Jewish Child, 

Tliat (•x(iuisite Saint .b>Ini. 
152 



wouutswuimi. 

1 see the dark-brown curls, the bro\\-. 

The smooth transparent skin, 
Kefin'd, as with intent to show 

The holiness within ; 
The grace of parting Infancy 

J>y blnshes yet untam'd ; 
Age faithful to the mother's knee, 

Nor of her arms ashanf d. 

Two lovely Sisters, still and sweet 

As flowers, stand side by side ; 
Their soul-subduing looks might cheat 

The Christian of his pride ; 
Such beauty hath th' Etei'nal i)our'd 

V\)on them not forlorn. 
Though of a lineage once abhorr'd. 

Nor yet redeem'd from scorn. 

jVIysterious safeguard, tliat, in spitt' 

Of poverty and wrong. 
Doth here preserve a living light. 

From Hebrew fountains sprung ; 
That gives this ragged group to cast 

Around the dell a gleam 
Of Palestine, of glory past, 

And proud Jorusalem ! 



153 



A PORTRAIT. 



A PORTRAIT. 



She was a phantom of delight 

When first she gleamed upon my sight ; 

A lovely Apparition, sent 

To be a moment's ornament ; 

Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair ; 

Like Twilight too her dusky hair ; 

But all things else about her drawn 

From May-time and the cheerful DaAvn ; 

A dancing Shape, an Image gay, 

To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 

I saAv her upon nearer view, 

A Spirit, yet a Woman too ! 

Her household motions light and free, 

And steps of virgin liberty ; 

A countenance in which did meet 

Sweet records, promises as sweet ; 

A Creature, not too bright or good 

For human nature's daily food ; 

For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 

And now I see with eye serene 
The very pulse of the machine ; 
A Being breathing thoughtful breath, 
A Traveller Ijetw^een life and death ; 
The reason firm, the temperate will. 
Endurance, foresight, strength and skill ; 
A perfect Woman, nobly planned 
To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
And yet a Spirit still, and bright 
With somethino; of an angel light. 



154 



WORDSWORTH. 



LUCY. 



TnKEE years she grew in sun and shower, 
Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower 

On earth was never sown ; 
Tlii>; Child I to myself will take ; 
JShe shall be mine, and I will make 

A Lady of my own. 

IMyself will to my darling be 

Both law and impulse : and with me 

The Girl, in rock and plain, 
In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, 
Shall feel an overseeing power 

To kindle or restrain. 

She shall be sportive as the Fawn 
That wild with glee across the lawn 

Or up the mountain springs ; 
And hers shall be the breathing balm, 
And hers the silence and the calm 

Of nuite insensate things. 

The Floating Clouds their state shall lend 
To her ; for her the Avillow bend : 

Nor shall she fail to see 
Even in the motions of the Storm 
(ilrace that shall mould the Maiden's form 

By silent sympathy. 

The Stars of Midnight shall be dear 
To her ; and she shall lean her ear 

In many a secret place 
Where IJivulets dance their Avayward round, 
And beauty born of murmuring sound 

Sliall pass into her lace. 
155 



SONNET. 

And vital feelings of delight 

Shall rear her form to stately height, 

Her virgin bosom swell ; 
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 
While she and 1 together live 

Here in this happy Dell." 

Thus Nature spoke. — The work was done- 
How soon my Lucy's race was run ! 

She died, and left to me 
This heath, this calm, and quiet scene ; 
Tlie memory of what has been. 

And never more will be. 



SONNET 

COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPT. .3, ISO.'i. 

E.ARTii has not any thing to show more fair: 
Didl would he be of soul who could pass by 
A sight so touching in its majesty : 
This City now doth like a garment weai' 
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, 
Ships, towers, domes, thcati'cs, and temples lie 
Open vmto the fields, and to tlie sky ; 
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. 
Never did sun more beautifully stecj) 
Li his first splendour valley, rock or hill ; 
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep. 
The river glideth at his own sweet will : 
Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep ; 
And all that mighty heart is lying still ! 



15G 



LAMB. 



HESTER.— A REMEMBRANCE. 



When maidens such as Hester die, 
Their pLace je may not well supply. 
Though yc among a thousand tiy. 
"NVith vain endeavour. 

A month or more hath she been dead, 
Yet cannot I by force be led 
To flunk upon the wormy bed 
And her together. 

A springy motion in her gait, 
A rising step, did indicate 
(){' pride and joy no common rate, 
That flusird her sjtirit — 

I know not by what name beside 
I shall it call: — if 'twas not pride, 
It was a joy to that allied 
She did iiilierit. 

Hei- parents held the Quaker rule, 
AVIiicli (loth the human feeling cool; 
liut she Avas train'd in Nature's school, 
Nature had blest her. 

A waking eye, a prying mind, 
A heai-t that stirs, is hard to bind, 
A liaAvk's keen sight ye cannot blind, 
Ye could not Hester. 
\r>7 



VERSES FOR AN ALBUM. 

My sprightly neighbour, gone before 
To that unknown and silent shore, 
Shall Ave not meet, as heretofore, 
Some summer morning. 

When from thy cheerful eyes a ray 
Plath struck a bliss upon the day, 
A bliss that would not go away, 
A sweet forewarning? 



VERSES FOR AN ALBUM. 

Fresh clad from heaven in robes of white, 

A young probationer of light. 

Thou wert, my soul, an Album bright, 

A spotless leaf; but thought, and care. 
And friends, and foes, in foul or fair, 
Have written " strange defeature" there. 

And Time, with heaviest hand of all, 
Like that fierce writing on the wall. 
Hath stamp'd sad dates he can't recall. 

And Error, gilding Avorse designs, 
Like speckled snake that strays and shines- 
Betrays his path by crooked lines. 

My scalded eyes no longer brook 

Upon this ink-blurr'd thing to look. 

Go — shut the leaves — and clasp the liook ! 



KIRKE WHITE. 



THE HERB ROSEMARY. 



Sweet scented flower ! wlio art wont to bloom 

On January's front severe, 

And o'er the wintry desert drear 
To waft thy waste perfume ! 
Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now. 
And I will bind thee round my brow ; 

And as I twine the mournful Avreath. 
ril weave a melancholy song, 
And SAveet the strain shall be, and long. 

The melody of death. 

Come, funeral flower! who lov'st to dwell 
With the pale corse in lonely tomb, 
And throw across the desert gloom 
A sweet decaying smell. 

Come, press my lips, and lie Avith mc 

Beneath the lowly alder-tree ; 

And wc will sleep a pleasant sleep. 

And not a care shall dare intrude, 

To break the marble solitude. 
So peaceful, and so deep. 

And hark ! the wind-god, as he flies. 
Moans hollow in the forest-trees. 
And sailing on the gusty breeze. 
Mysterious music dies. 
Sweet flower! that requiem wild is niiiic. 
It warns me to the lonely shrine, 
i.yj 



ODE TO DISAPPOINTMENT. 

The cold turf altar of the dead ; 
My grave shall be in yon lone spot, 
^Vliei'e as I lie, by all forgot, 
A dying fragrance thou Avilt o'er my ashes shed. 



ODE TO DISAPPOINTMENT. 

Come, Disappointment, come! 

Not in thy terrors clad ; 
Come in tliy meekest, saddest guise : 
Thy chastening rod but terrifies 
The restless and the bad. 
But I recline 
Beneath thy shrine, 
And round my brow resign'd thy peaceful cypress twine 

Tliough Fancy flics away 

Before thy hollow tread. 
Yet Meditation, in her cell. 
Hears with faint eye the ling'ring knell. 
That tells her hopes are dead ; 
And though the tear 
B}- chance appear, 
Yet she can smile, and say. My all was not laid here ! 

What is this passing scene ? 

A peevish April day! 
A little sun, a little rain, 
And then night sweeps along the plain, 
And all things fade aAvay. 
Man (soon discuss'd) 
Yields up his trust. 
And :dl liis hopes and fears lie with him in the dust. 

IGO 



KIRKE WHITE. 

Oh, what is Beauty's power? 

It flourishes and dies ; 
Will the cold earth its silence break, 
To tell how soft, how smooth a cheek 
Beneath its surface lies ? 
Mute, mute is all 
O'er Beauty's fall ; 
Her praise resounds no more Avhen mantled in her i)all. 

The most belov'd on earth 

Not long survives to-day ; 
So music past is obsolete, 
And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet. 
But now 'tis gone away. 
Thus does the shade 
In memory fade. 
When in forsaken tomb the form belov'd is laid. 

Then, since this world is vain. 

And volatile, and fleet, 
Why should I lay up earthly joys 
Where rust corrupts, and moth destroys, 
And cares and sorrows eat? 
Why fly from ill 
With cautious skill. 
When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart be still? 

Come, Disappointment, come I 
Thou art not stern to me ; 
Sad monitress ! I own thy sway, 
A votary sad in early day, 
I bend my knee to thee. 
From sun to sun 
My race will run ; 
I only bow, and say, IMy God, Thy will be done ! 



161 



ALLSTON. 



AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN. 



All liail ! tliou noble land. 
Our Fathers' native soil ! 
O, stretch thy mighty hand, 
Gigantic grown by toil, 
O'er the vast Atlantic wa\e to our shore ! 
For thou with magic might 
Canst reach to where the light 
Of Phoebus travels bright 
The Avorld o'er ! 

The Genius of our clime, 

From his pine-embattled steep. 
Shall hail the guest sublime ; 
While the Tritons of the deep 
With their conchs the kindred league shall proclaim. 
Then let the world combine, — 
O'er the main our naval line 
Like the milky-way shall shine 
Bright in fame! 

Though ages long have past 

Since our Fathers left their home, 
Their pilot in the blast, 

O'er unti'avelled seas to roam, 
Yet lives the blood of England in our veins! 
And shall we not proclaim 
That blood of honest fame 
Which no tyranny can tame 
By its chains? 

1C2 



ALLSTOX. 

AVliile the language free and bold 
AN'liich the Bard of Avon sung, 
In which our Milton told 

How the vault of heaven rung 
When Satan, blasted, fell with his host : — 
While this, with reverence meet, 
Ten thousand echoes greet. 
From rock to rock repeat 
Round our coast ; — 

"While the manners, while the arts, 

That mould a nation's soul, 
Still cling around our hearts, — 
BetAveen let Ocean roll, 
Oui' joint communion breaking Avith the Sun 
Yet still from cither beach 
The voice of blood shall reach. 
More audible than speech, 
"We are One." 



ROSALIE. 



•' O POUR upon my soul again 
That sad, unearthly strain. 
That seems from other worlds to plain ; 
Tims falling, falling from afar. 
As if some melancholy star 
Had mingled with her light her sighs, 
And dropped them from the skies ! 

'' No. — never came from aught beloAv 
This melody of woe, 
That makes my heart to overfloAv, 
1 i\?, 



A FKAGMENT. 

As from a tliousand gusliing springs, 
Unknown before ; that with it brings 
This nameless light, — if light it be, — 
That veils the world I see. 

" For all I see around me wears 

The hue of other spheres ; 
And somethmg blent of smiles and tears 
Cotiaes from the very air I breathe. 
0, nothing, sure, the stars beneath 
Can mould a sadness like to this, — 

So like angelic bliss." 

So, at that dreamy hour of day 
When the last lingering ray 

Stops on the highest cloud to play, — 

So thought the gentle Kosalie, 

As on her maiden reverie 

First fell the strain of him who stole 
In music to her soul. 



A FRAGMENT. 



Wise is the face of Nature unto him 
WHiose heart, amid the business and the cares. 
The cunning and bad passions, of the world, 
Still keeps its freshness, and can look upon her 
As when she breathed upon his schoolboy face 
Her morning breath, from o'er the dewy beds 
Of infant violets waking to the sun ; — 
When the young spirit, only recipient. 
So drank in her beauties, that his heart 
Would reel within him, joining jubilant 
The dance of brooks and waving woods and flower; 
IGi 




DANA. 



THE HUSBAND'S AND WIFE'S GRAVE. 



Husband and wife ! No converse now yc hold. 
As once yc did in your young days of love, 

165 



THE HUSBAND'S AND WIFE'S GRAVE. 

On its alarms, its anxious hours, delays. 

Its silent meditations, its glad hopes, 

Its fears, impatience, quiet sympathies ; 

Nor do ye speak of joy assured, and bliss 

Full, certain, and possess'd. Domestic cares 

Call you not now together. Earnest talk 

On what your children may be, moves you not. 

Ye lie in silence, and an awful silence ; 

"I'is not like that in which ye rested once 

jMost happy — silence eloquent, when heart 

With heart held speech, and your mysterious iVames. 

Harmonious, sensitive, at every beat 

Touch'd the soft notes of love. 

Stillness profound, 
Insensible, unheeding, folds you round ; 
And darkness, as a stone, has seafd you in. 
Away from all the living, here ye rest : 
In all the nearness of the narrow tomb. 
Yet feel ye not each other's presence now. 
Dread fellowship! together, yet alone. 

Is this thy prison-house, thy grave, then, I^ove? 
And doth death cancel the great bond that holds 
Commingling spirits? Are thoughts that know no l)oun( 
But, self-inspii*ed, rise upward, searching out 
The eternal Mind — the Father of all thought — 
Arc they become mere tenants of a tomb? 
Dwellers in darkness, Avho th' illuminate realms 
Of uncreated light have visited and lived ? 
Lived in the dreadful splendour of that throne, 
\Vliich One, with gentle hand the veil of flesh 
rifting, that hung 'twixt man and it, reveal'd 
In glory? throne, before Avhich even now 
Our souls, moved by prophetic power, bow down 
Ivojoicing, yet at their own natures awed? 
Souls that Thee know by a mysterious sense, 

IGfJ 



DANA. 

Thou awful, unseen presence — are they quenched, 
Or bui'n they on, hid from our mortal eyes 
By that bright day which ends not, as the sun 
His robe of light flings round the glittering stars! 

And with our frames do perish all our loves? 
Do those that took their root and put forth buds. 
And their soft leaves unfolded in the warmth 
Of mutual hearts, grow up and live in beauty, 
Then fade and fall, like fair unconscious flowers ? 
Are thoughts and passions that to the tongue give speech. 
And make it send forth winning harmonies, 
That to the cheek do give its living glow. 
And vision in the eye the soul intense 
^Vith that for which there is no utterance — 
Are these the body's accidents? no more? 
To live in it, and Avhen that dies, go out 
Like the burnt taper's flame'? 

Oh, listen, man! 
A voice Avitliin us speaks that startling word, 
"Man, thou shalt never die!" Celestial voices 
Ilynm it unto our souls : according harps. 
By angel fingers touch'd Avhen the mild stars 
Of morning sang together, sound forth still 
'I'hc song of our great immortality : 
Thick clustering orbs, and this our fair domain, 
The tall, dark mountains, and the deep-toned seas 
Join in this solemn, universal song. 
Oh, listen, ye, our spirits; drink it in 
From all the air! 'Tis in the gentle moonlight; 
'Tis floating midst day's setting glories ; Night, 
Wrapped in her sable robe, with silent step 
Comes to our bed and breathes it in our ears : 
Night, and the dawn, bright day, and thoughtful eve. 
All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse. 
As one vast mystic instrument, are touch'd 

167 



THE HUSBAND'S AND WIFE'S GRAVE. 

By an unseen, living Hand, and conscious chords 
Quiver with joy in this great jubilee. 
The dying hear it ; and as sounds of earth 
(xrow dull and distant, v^^ake their passing souls 
To mingle in this heavenly harmony. 

Why is it that I linger round this tomb? 
^Vhat holds it? Dust that cumber'd those I mourn. 
They shook it off, and laid aside earth's robes. 
And put on those of light. They're gone to dwell 
In love — their God's and angels'. Mutual love. 
That bound them here, no longer needs a speech 
For full communion ; nor sensations strong, 
Within the breast, their prison, strive in vain 
To be set free, and meet their kind in joy. 
Changed to celestials, thoughts that rise in each, 
By natures new, impart themselves, though silent. 
Each quick' ning sense, each throb of holy love, 
Affections sanctified, and the full glow 
Of being, which expand and gladden one. 
By union all mysterious, thrill and live 
In both immortal frames : Sensation all, 
And thought, pervading, mingling sense and thought! 
Ye pair'd, yet one ! Avrapped in a consciousness 
Twofold, yet single — this is love, this life! 

Why call we, then, the square-built monument. 
The upright column, and the low-laid slab. 
Tokens of death, memorials of decay? 
Stand in this solemn, still assembly, man, 
And learn thy proper nature ; for thou see'st. 
In these shaped stones and letter'd tables, figures 
Of life : More are they to thy soul than those 
Whicli he who talk'd on Sinai's mount with God 
Brought to the old Judeans — types are these, 
Of thine eternity. 



1G8 



DANA. 

I thank thee, Father, 
That at this simple grave, on which the daA\'n 
Is breaking, emblem of that day which hath 
No close, Thou kindly unto my dark mind 
Hast sent a sacred light, and that away 
From this green hillock, whither I had come 
In sorrow, Thou art leading me in joy. 



A CLUMP OF DAISIES. 



Ye daisies gay, 

Tliis fresh spring day 
Close gathered here together, 

To play in the light. 

To sleep all the night. 
To abide through the sullen weather ; 

\ 
Ye creatures bland, 

A simple band. 
Ye free ones, linked in pleasure. 

And linked when your forms 

Stoop low in the storms, 
And the rain comes down without measure 

When wild clouds fly 

Athwart the sky. 
And ghostly shadows, glancing, 

Arc darkening the gleam 

Of the hurrying stream. 
And your close, bright heads gayly dancing ; 
1G!» 



A CLUMP OF DAISIES. 

Though dull awhile, 

Again ye smile ; 
For, see, the warm sun breaking ; 

The stream's going glad. 

There's nothing now sad, 
And the small bird his song is waking. 

The dew-drop sip 

With dainty lip ! 
The sun is low descended. 

And, Moon! softly fall 

On troop true and small ! 
Sky and earth in one kindly blended. 

And, Morning ! spread 

Their jewelled bed 
With lights in the east sky springing! 

And, ]>rook ! breathe around 

Thy. loAV murmured sound ! 
May they move, ye Birds, to your singing ! 

For in their play 

I hear them say, 
Here, man, thy wisdom borrow : 

In heart be a child, 

In word, true and mild : 
Hold thy faith, come joy, or romo sorrow. 



170 



WOODWORTH. 

THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. 

How dear to this heart arc the scenes of my childhooil. 

When fond recollection presents them to view; 
The orchard, the meadow, the deep tangled wild wood. 

And every loved spot which my infancy knew ; 
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it. 

The bridge and the rock where the cataract fell ; 
The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, 

And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well. 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. 
The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. 

That moss-covei-ed vessel I hail as a treasure ; 

For often, at noon, when returned from the tield, 
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, 

The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. 
How ardent I seized it with hands that were glowing. 

And quick to the wdiite pebbled bottom it fell ; 
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, 

And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well ; 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
The moss-covered bucket arose from the well. 

How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, 

As, pois'd on the curb, it inclined to my lips ! 
Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it. 

Though fiird Avith the nectar that Jupiter sips. 
And now far removed from the loved situation. 

The tear of regret will intrusively swell, 
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, 

And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well ; 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. 
The moss-covered bucket which hangs in his w(dl. 

171 





SCOTT. 



THE SUN UPON THE WEIRDLAW HILL. 



The sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill, 
In Ettriek's vale, is sinking SAveet ; 
172 



.SCOTT. 

The westland wind is huslit and still, 

The lake lies sleeping at my feet. 
Yet not the landscape to mine eye 

Bears those sweet hues that once it bore; 

Though Evening, with her richest dye, 
Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick shore. 

With listless look along the plain, 

I see Tweed's silver current glide, 
And coldly mark the holy fane 

Of Melrose rise in ruin'd pride. 
The quiet lake, the balmy air, 

The hill, the stream, the tower, the tree — 
Are they still sweet as once they were, 

Or is the dreary change in me? 

Alas! the warp'd and broken boai-d. 

How can it bear the painter's dye? 
The harp of strain'd and tuneless chord, 

How to the minstrel's skill reply? 
To aching eyes each landscape lours. 

To feverish pulse each gale blows chill: 
And Araby, or Eden's bowers. 

Were barren as this moorland hill. 



173 




MARMION— DYING. 



TiiEY parted, and alone lie lay : 

Clare drew her from the sight away. 
Till pain wrung forth a lowlj moan, ^ 
And half he murmur'd, — " Is there none. 

Of all my halls have nurst, 
Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring 
Of blessed water from the spring, 

To slake my dying thirst?" 
174 



SC'OT'J'. 

Woiiuui ! in our hours of ease, 

Ihicertain, coy, and hard to please, 

And variable as the shade 

1>3' the light quivering aspen made ; 

>Vhen pain and anguish wring the bro\\-, 

A ministering angel thou ! — 

Scarce were the piteous accents said, 

When, Avith the Baron's casque, the maid 

To the nigh streamlet ran : 
Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and feai"s — 
The plaintive voice alone she hears. 

Sees but the dying man. 
She stoop'd her by the runnel's side, 

l>ut in abhorrence backward drew ; 
For, oozing from the mountains wide, 
Where raged the war, a dark-red tide 

Was curdling in the streamlet blue. 
Where shall she turn? behold her mark 

A little fountain cell, 
Wliere Avater, clear as diamond-spark. 

In a stone basin fell. 
Above, some half-worn letters say, 

Urinlv . iiirnnj . pilgrim . kink . nnii . jirnij 

/ur . tjjB . kiah . 0nul . nf . Iijliil . (grrt{ . 

IVtjjn . hiiilt . tjiis . rrnss . niili . inrll . 

She fill'd the helm, and back she hied. 
And with surprise and joy espied 

A Monk supporting Marmion's head — 
A pious man, whom duty brought 
'J"o dubious verge of battle fought. 

To shrive the dying, bless the dead. 



17.'-. 




THE BURNING OF ROKEBY. 



Soon murkier clouds the Hall enfold, 
Than e'er from battle-thunders roll'd — 
So dense, the combatants scarce know 
To aim or to avoid the blow. 
Smoth'ring and blindfold grows the iiglit- 
But soon shall dawn a dismal light ! 



SCOTT. 

'Mid cries, and clashing arms, there came 
The hollow sound of rushing flame ; 
New horrors on the tumult dire 
Arise — the Castle is on fire ! 
Doubtful, if chance had cast the brand, 
Or frantic Bertram's desperate hand. 
Matilda saw — for frequent broke 
From the dim casements gusts of smoke. 
Yon tower, which late so clear defin'd 
On the fair hemisphere reclin'd. 
That, pencill'd on its azure pure. 
The eye could count each embrasure. 
Now, swath'd within the sweeping cloud, 
Seems giant spectre in his shroud ; 
Till, from each loophole flashing light, 
A spout of fire shines ruddy bright. 
And, gathering to united glare. 
Streams high into the midnight air ; 
A dismal beacon, far and Avide 
That waken'd Greta's slumbering side. 
Soon all beneath, through gallery long 
And pendant arch, the fire flash'd strong, 
Snatching whatever could maintain, 
Eaise, or extend, its furious reign ; 
Startling, Avith closer cause of dread. 
The females Avho the conflict fled, 
And noA\' rush'd forth upon the plain. 
Filling the air AA-ith clamours Aain. 

But ceas'd not yet, the Hall Avithin, 

The shriek, the shout, the carnage-din. 

Till bursting lattices give proof 

The flames have caught the rafter'd roof. 

What ! Avait they till its beams amain 

Crash on the slayers and the slain ? 

Til' alarm is caught — the draAvbridge falls — 

The AA-arriors hurry from the Avails; 

177 M 



THE BURNING OF ROKEBY. 

But, by the conflagi'ation's light, 
Upon the lawn renew the fight. 
Each straggling felon clown was hew'd, 
Not one could gain the shelt'ring wood ; 
But forth th' affrighted harper sprung, 
And to Matilda's robe he clung. 
Her shriek, entreaty, and command. 
Stopp'd the pursuer's lifted hand. 
Denzil and he alive were ta'en; 
The rest, save Bertram, all are slain. 

And where is Bertram? — Soaring high. 
The general flame ascends the sky ; 
In gather'd group the soldiers gaze 
Upon the broad and roaring blaze. 
When, like infernal demon, sent 
Eed from his penal element. 
To plague and to pollute the air — 
His face all gore, on fire his hair — 
Forth from the central mass of smoke 
The giant form of Bertram broke ! 
His brandish'd sword on high he rears, 
Then plung'd among opposing spears ; 
Round his left arm his mantle truss'd, 
Keceiv'd and foil'd three lances' thrust ; 
Nor these his headlong course withstood. 
Like reeds he snapp'd the tough ash-wood. 
In vain his foes around him clung; 
With matchless force aside he flung 
Their boldest, — as the bull at bay 
Tosses the ban-dogs from his way. 
Through forty foes his path he made. 
And safely gain'd the forest glade. 

Scarce was this final conflict o'er, 
When from the postern Redmond bore 
Wilfrid, wlio, as of life bereft, 
178 



SCOTT. 

Had in the fatal Hall been left. 
Deserted there by all his train ; — 
But Redmond saw, and turn'd again. 
Beneath an oak he laid him down, 
That in the blaze gleam'd ruddy brown/ 
And then his mantle's clasp undid ; 
Matilda held his drooping head, 
Till, given to breathe the freer air, 
Returning life repaid their care. 
He gazed on them with heavy sigh, — 
" I could have wish'd even thus to die !" 
No more he said — for now with speed 
Each trooper had regain'd his steed ; 
The ready palfreys stood array' d, 
For Redmond and for Rokeby's Maid ; 
Two Wilfrid on his horse sustain, 
One leads his charger by the rein. 
But oft Matilda look'd behind. 
As up the Vale of Tees they wind, 
Wliere far the mansion of her sires 
Beacon'd the dale with midnight fires. 
In gloomy arch above them spread, 
The clouded heaven lower'd bloody red ; 
Beneath, in sombre light, the flood 
Appear'd to roll in waves of blood. 
Then, one by one, was heard to fall 
The tower, the donjon-keep, the hall. 
Each rushing doA\ai with thunder sound, 
A space the conflagration drown'd ; 
Till, gathering strength, again it rose, 
Announc'd its triumph in its close. 
Shook wide its light the landscape o'er. 
Then sunk — and Rokeby was no more ! 



170 



CAMPBELL. 



THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. 

Our bugles sang truce — for the night-cloud had lower d. 

And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky ; 
And thousands had sunk on the ground overpoAvcr'd, 

The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. 

\Vlien reposing that night on my pallet of straw, 
By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain, 

At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw ; 
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. 

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, 
Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track, 

Till Autumn — and sunshine arose on the way 

To the house of my fathers, that welcomed me back. 

I flew to the pleasant fields, travers'd so oft 

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young ; 

I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft. 

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. 

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore 

From my home and my weeping friends never to part ; 

My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er, 
And my Avife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart. 

•'Stay — stay with us! — rest! thou art weary and worn !"- 
(And fain was their Avar-broken soldier to stay ;) 

But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn, 
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away ! 
180 



CAMPBELL. 



THE EXILE OF ERIN. 



There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, 
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill; 

For his country he sigh'd, when at twilight repairing 
To Avander alone by the wind-beaten hill. 

But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion; 

For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, 

Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion, 
He sang the bold anthem of Erin-go-bragh, ' 

"Sad is my fate!" said the heart-broken stranger: 
" The Avild deer and wolf to a covert can flee. 

But I have no refuge from fjxmine and danger,- 
A home and a country remain not to me. 

Never again, in the green sunny bowers 

Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hor 

Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers, 
And strike to the numbers of Erin-go-bragh. 

'•Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken. 
In dreams I rcAisit thy sea -beaten shore; 

But, alas! in a far foreign land I aAvaken, 

And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more I 

Oh cruel fate ! wUt thou never replace me 

In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me ? 

Never again shall my brothers embrace me! 
They died to defend me, or live to deplore! 

''A^^lere is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood? 

Sisters and sire! did ye weep for its fall? 
Where is the mother that look'd on my childhood^ 

And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all? 
181 




Ah! my sad heart! long abandon' d by pleasure! 
Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure? 
Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without measure, 
r>ut rapture and beauty they cannot recall. 



" Yet ail its sad recollections suppressing, 
One dying wish my lone bosom can draw : 

Erin ! an exile bequeaths thee liis blessing. 
Land of my forefathers ! Erin-go-bragh ! 

liuried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, 

(Ireen be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean! 

And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion,- 
* Erin mavournin, — Erin-go-bragh !' " 
182 



CAMPBELL. 



DRINKING SONG OF MUNICH. 



Sweet Iscr! were thy sunny rcnlm 

And flowery gardens mine, 
Thy waters I would shade with chii, 

To prop the tender vine. 
lAIy golden flagons I would fill 
^Vith rosy draughts from every hill ; 

And, under each green spreading bower. 
My gay companions should prolong 
The feast, the revel, and the song. 

To many an idle sportive hour. 

Like rivers crimson'd by the beam 

Of yonder planet bright, 
Our balmy cups should ever stream 

Profusion of delight; 
No care should touch the mellow heart. 
And sad or sober none depart ; 

(For wine can triumph over woe;) 
And Love and Bacchus, brother powers. 
Should build in Lser's sunny bowers 

A Paradise below? 



183 



LOCHIEL'S WARNING. 



LOCHIEL'S WARNING. 

WIZARD. 

LociiiEL, Lochiel, beware of the day, 
When tlie Lowlands shall meet thee in battle-array ! 
For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, 
And the clans of Culloden are scatter'd in fight : 
They rally, they bleed for their kingdom and crown, — 
Woe, Avoe to the riders that trample tlicm down ! 
Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, 
And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. 
But hark ! through the fiist-flashing lightning of war, 
What steed to the desert flies frantic and far? 
'Tis thine, O Glenullin ! whose bride shall await, 
Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate. 
A steed comes at morning — no rider is there ; 
But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. 
Weep, Albin ! to death and captivity led ; 
Oh, weep! but thy tears cannot number the dead; 
For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave — 
Culloden that reeks with the blood of the brave. 

LOCIIIEL. 

Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer! 
Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear. 
Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight, 
This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright. 

WIZARD. 

I la! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn? 
Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn ! 
Say, rush'd the bold eagle exultingly forth. 
From his home, in the dark-rolling clouds of the North? 

18-1: 



CAMPBELL. 

L(j ! the death-shot of focmen outspccding, he rode 
Conflpanionless, bearing destruction abroad: 
But down let liim stoop from his havoc on high ! 
Ah ! home let him speed — for the spoiler is nigh. 
Wliy flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast 
Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast? 
'Tis the fire-show'r of Ruin, all dreadfully driven 
From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of heaven. 

crested Lochiel ! the peerless in might, 
Whose banners arise on the battlement's height. 
Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn ; 
Return to thy dwelling ! all lonely return ! 

For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood, 
And a M'ild mother scream o'er her famishing brood. 

LOCHIEL. 

False Wizard, avaunt ! I have marshall'd my clan : 
Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one ! 
They are true to the last of their blood and their breath, 
And like reapers descend to the harvest of death. 
Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock ! 
Let him dash his proud foam, like a wave on the rock ! 
But Avoe to his kindred, and woe to his cause. 
When Albin her claymore indignantly draws! ^ 

When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, 
Clanronald the dauntless, and Moray the proud. 
All plaided and plumed in their tartan arra}- — 

WIZAHD. 

— Lochiel, Lochiel ! beAvarc of the day ; 
For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal, 
But man cannot cover what God would i-evcal : 
'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore. 
And coming events cast their shadows before. 

1 tell thee, Culloden's di-ead echoes shall ring 

Witli the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugiti\e king. 

IS.-. 



LOCHIEL'S WAENING. 

Lo ! anointed by Pleaven with the vials of wrath. 

Behold, where he flies on his desolate path! 

Now, in darkness and billows, he sweeps from my sight — 

Rise ! rise ! ye Avild tempests, and cover his flight ! . . . . 

. . . 'Tis finish'd. Their thunders are hush'd on the moors 

Cullodcn is lost, and my country deplores. 

But where is the iron-bound prisoner? Where? 

For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. 

Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banish'd, forlorn. 

Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and torn ? 

Ah, no! for a darker departure is near; 

The war-drum is mufiled, and black is the bier; 

His death-bell is tolling; oh! mercy, dispel 

Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell ! 

Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs, 

And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims. 

Accurs'd be the fagots that blaze at his feet, 

Where his heart shall be thrown, ere it ceases to beat. 

With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale — 

LOCIIIEL. 

— Down, soothless insulter! I trust not the tale; 

For never shall Albin a destiny meet 

So black with dishonour, so foul with retreat. 

Tho' my perishing ranks should be strew'd in their gore. 

Like ocean-weeds heap'd on the surf-beaten shore, 

Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains, 

While the kindling of life in his bosom remains, 

Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low, 

With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe! 

And, leaving in battle no blot on his name, 

Look proudly to Heaven from the death-bed of fame. 



CAMPBELL. 



HOHENLINDEN. 



On Linden, when the sun was low, 
All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow ; 
And dark as wmtcr Avas the floAV 
Of Iscr, rolling rapidly. 

But Linden saw another sight, 
When the drum beat, at dead of night. 
Commanding fires of death to light 
The darkness of her scenery. 

liy torch and trumpet fast array'd, 
Each horseman drew his battle-blade, 
And furious every charger neigh'd, 
To join the dreadful revelry. 

Then shook the hills, Avith thunder riA'cn 
Then rush'd the steed to battle driven ; 
And, louder than the bolts of heaven. 
Far llash'd tlie red artillery. 

I)Ut redder yet that light shall glow 
On Linden's hills of stained siioaa^, 
And bloodier yet the torrent lloAV 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun 
Can pierce the Avar-clouds, rolling dun. 
Where furious Frank, and tiery Ilun, 
Shout in tlieir sulph'rous canopy. 
187 



HOHENLINDEN. 




The combat deepens. On, ye brave, 
"Who rush to glory, or tlie grave ! 
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave I 
And charge wdth all thy chivalry! 

188 



CAMPBELL. 



Few, few shall part, Avhere many meet ! 
The snow shall be their winding-sheet, 
And every turf beneath their feet 
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre ! 



BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. 

Of Nelson and the North, 

Sing the glorious day's renown, 

^Vlien to battle fierce came forth 

All the might of Denmark's crown, 

And her arms along the deep proudly shone ; 

By each gun the lighted brand. 

In a bold determined hand, 

And the Prince of all the land 

Led them on. — 

Like leviathans afloat, 

Lay their bulwarks on the brine : 

Wliile the sign of battle flew 

On the lofty British line : 

It was ten of April morn by the chime : 

As they drifted on their path. 

There Avas silence deep as death ; 

And the boldest held his breath 

For a time. — 

But the might of England flush'd 
To antici[)ate the scene ; 
And her van the fleeter rush'd 
O'er the deadly space between. 

"Hearts of oak!" our captain cried; when each gun 
189 



BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. 

From its adamantine lips 

Spread a death-shade round the ships, 

Like the hurricane eclipse 

01" the sun. — 

Again ! again ! again ! 

And the havoc did not slack, 

Till a feeble cheer the IJane 

To oui" cheering sent us l)ack ; 

Tlieii- shots along the deej) slowly boom : 

Then ceas'd — and all is wail, 

As they strike the shatter'd sail ; 

Or, in conflagration jiale. 

Light the gloom. — 

Out s])oke the victor then, 

As he hail'd them o'er the wave : 

" Ye arc brothers ! ye are men ! 

And we conquer but to save : — 

•So peace instead of death let us bring: 

But yield, proud foe, thy fleet, 

With the crews, at England's feet, 

And make submission meet 

To our King.'' — 

'J'lien Denmai-k blest our chief 

That he gave her wounds repose ; 

And the sounds of joy and grief 

From her people wildly rose. 

As Ueatli withdrew his shades from the day; 

While tlie sun look'd smiling bright 

O'er a wide and woful sight, 

AVhere the fires of funeral light 

Died aAvay. — 

N<)\v joy. Old England, raise ! 
For the tidings of thy might, 
190 



CAMPI5ELL. 

By the festal cities' blaze, 

Whilst the wine-cup shines in light ; 

And yet, amidst that joy and uproar, 

Let us think of them tliat sleep, 

Full many a fathoin deeji. 

By thy w'M and stormy steep, 

ELsinore ! — 

Brave hearts! to Britain's pride 

Once so faithful and so true, "' 

On the deck of fame that died, 

Witli the gallant, good Eiou ; — 

Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave ! 

While the billow mournful rolls. 

And the mermaid's song condoles, 

Singing glory to the souls 

Of the brave ! 



YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. 



Ye Mariners of England ! 
That guard our native seas ; 
AYhose flag has braved, a thousand years, 
The battle and the breeze ! 
Your glorious standard launcli again, 
To match another foe! 
And sweep through the deep. 
While the stormy winds do blow; 
^^'llil(■ tlie battle rages loud and long. 
And tlic stormy winds do blow, 
lyi 




The spirits of your fathers 
Shall start from every wave ! 
For the deck it was their field of fame, 
And Ocean was their grave : 
Where ]31ake and mighty Nelson fell, 
Your manly hearts shall glow. 
As ye sweep through the deep, 
"While the stormy winds do blow ; 
While the battle rages loud and long, 
And the stormy winds do blow. 
192 



CAMPBELL. 

Britannia needs no bulwarks, 

No towers along the steep ; 

Her march is on the mountain-waves, 

Her home is on the deep. 

With thunders from her native oak, 

She quells the floods below — 

As they roar on the shore, 

When the stormy winds do blow ; 

When the battle rages loud and long, 

And the stormy winds do blow. 

The meteor flag of England 

Shall yet terrific burn, 

Till danger's troubled night depart, 

And the star of peace return. 

Then, then, ye ocean- warriors ! 

Our song and feast shall flow 

To the fame of your name, 

When the storm has ceased to blow ; 

When the fiery fight is heard no more. 

And the storm has ceased to blow. 



193 



WILDE. 

STANZAS. 

My life is like the summer rose 

That opens to the morning sky, 
But ere the shades of evening close, 

Is scatter'd on the ground — to die ! 
Yet on the rose's humble bed 
The sweetest dews of night are shed, 
As if she wept the Avaste to see — 
]>ut none shall weep a tear for me ! 

JNIy life is like the autumn leaf 

That trembles in the moon's pale ray, 
Its hold is frail — its date is brief, 

Restless — and soon to pass away ! 
Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade. 
The parent tree will mourn its shade, 
The winds bewail the leafless tree, 
l>ut none shall breathe a sigh for me ! 

My life is like the prints, which feet 

Have left on Tampa's desert strand ; 
Soon as the rising tide shall beat, 

All trace will vanish from the sand ; 
Yet, as if grieving to efface 
All vestige of the human race, 
On that lone shore loud moans the sea, 
But none, alas ! shall mourn for me ! 



19+ 



JAMES MONTGOMERY. 

THE DEATH OF ADAM. 

The sun, in summor majesty on high, 

Darted his fierce efi'ulgence down the sky ; 

Yet dimm'd and blunted were the dazzling rays, 

His orb expanded through a dreary haze, 

And, circled with a red portentous zone, 

He look'd in sickly horror from his throne : 

When higher noon had shrunk the lessening shade. 

Thence to his home our father we convej'd. 

And stretch'd him, pillow'd with his latest sheaves. 

On a fresh couch of green and fragrant leaves. 

Here, though his sufferings through the glen Avcrc kno-^A'ii, 

We chose to watch his dying-bed alone, 

Eve, Seth, and I. — In vain he sigh'd for rest, 

And oft his meek complainings thus express'd : 

" Blow on me, Wind ! I faint with heat ! O liring 

Delicious water from the deepest spring ; 

Your sunless shadows o'er my limbs diffuse. 

Ye Cedars ! wash me cold with midnight dews ; 

Cheer me, my friends ! Avith looks of kindness cheer : 

Whisper a word of comfort in mine ear ; 

These sorrowing faces fill my soul with gloom — 

This silence is the silence of the tomb." 

The sun went down, amidst an angiy glare 
Of flushing clouds, that crimson'd all the air ; 
The winds brake loose ; the forest-boughs were torn. 
And dark aloof the eddying foliage borne : 

195 



THE DEATH OF ADAM. 

Cattle to shelter scudded in affright ; 

The florid Evening vanish'd into night : 

Then burst the hurricane upon the vale, 

In peals of thunder, and thick-volley'd hail ; 

Prone rushing rains with torrents whelm'd the land ; 

Our cot amidst a river seem'd to stand ; 

Around its base, the foamy-crested streams 

Flash'd through the darkness to the lightning's gleams ; 

With rnonstrous throes an earthquake heaved the ground 

The rocks were rent, the mountains trembled round. 

Amidst this war of elements, within 
More dreadful grew the sacrifice of sin, 
Whose victim on his bed of tortui-e lay. 
Breathing the slow remains of life away. 
Erewhile, victorious faith sublimer rose 
Beneath the pressure of collected woes ; 
But now his spirit waver'd, went and came. 
Like the loose vapour of departing flame. 
Till at the point, when comfort seem'd to die 
For ever in his fix'd unclosing eye. 
Bright through the smouldering ashes of the man, 
The saint brake forth, and Adam thus began : — 
" O ye who shudder at this awful strife, 
This wrestling agony of Death and Life, 
Think not that He, on whom my soul is cast, 
Will leave me thus forsaken to the last ; 
Nature's infirmity alone you see ; 
My chains are breaking, I shall soon be free : 
Though firm in God the spirit holds her trust, 
The flesh is frail, and trembles into dust. 
Thou, of my faith the Author and the End ! 
Mine early, late, and everlasting Friend ! 
The joy, that once Thy presence gave, restore. 
Ere I am summon'd hence, and seen no more ; 
Down to the dust returns this earthly frame — 
Receive my spirit. Lord ! from whom it came." 

196 



JAMES MONTGOMERY. 

He closed his eyelids Avith a tranquil smile, 
And seem'd to rest in silent pi-ayer awhile : 
Around his couch with iilial awe we kneel'd, 
When suddenly a light from heaven reveal'd 
A Spirit, that stood Avithin the unopen'd door, 
The sword of God in his right hand he bore ; 
His countenance was lightning, and his vest 
Like snow at sun-rise on the mountain's crest ; 
Yet so benignly beautiful his form. 
His presence still'd the fury of the storm ; 
At once the winds retire, the w^aters cease ; 
His look was love, his salutation "Peace!" 

Our Mother first beheld him, sore amazed, 
But teiTor grew to transport, while she gazed, — 
" 'Tis he, the Prince of Seraphim ! who drove 
Our banish'd feet from Eden's happy gi'ove. 
Adam, my Life, my Spouse, awake!" she cried; 
"Eeturn to Paradise; behold thy Guide! 
O let me follow in this dear embrace !" 
She sunk, and on his bosom hid her face. 
Adam look'd up; his visage changed its hue, 
Transform'd into an Angel's at the -view. 
"I come!" he cried, with faith's fnll triumph fir'd, 
And in a sigh of ecstasy expir'd. 
The light was vanish'd, and the vision fled ; 
We stood alone, the living with the dead ; 
The ruddy embers, glimmering round the room, 
Display'd the corpse amidst the solemn gloom ; 
But o'er the scene a holy calm repos'd. 
The gate of heaven had open'd there, and clos'd. 



197 



JOANNA BAILLIE. 



THE PHRENZY OF ORRA. 



Ilartinan. Is she Avell? 

Theobald. Iler body is. 

Hart. And not her mind ? oh, direst wreck of all ! 
That noble mind!— But 'tis some passing seizure, 
Some powerful movement of a transient nature ; 
It is not madness ! 

Theo. 'Tis Heaven's infliction; let us call it so; 
(rive it no other name. 

Eleanora. Nay, do not thus despair; when she beholds us, 
She'll know her friends, and, by our kindly soothing, 
Be gradually restored — 

Alice. Let me go to her. 

Theo. Nay, forbear, I pray thee ; 
I will myself with thee, my worthy Hartman, 
Go in and lead her forth. 

Orra. Come back, come ,back ! the fierce and fiery light ! 

Theo. Shrink not, dear love! it is the light of day. 

Orra. Have cocks crow'd yet? 

Theo. Yes; twice I've heard already 
Their matin sound. Look up to the blue sky — 
Is it not daylight there? And these green boughs 
Are fresh and fragrant round thee ; every sense 
Tells thee it is the cheerful early day. 

Orra. Aye, so it is; day takes his daily turn. 
Rising between the gulfy dells of night, 
like Avhiten'd billows on a gloomy sea. 

198 



JOANNA BAILLIE. 

Till glow-worms gleam, and stars peep through the dai'k, 
And Avill-o'-the-wisp his dancing taper light, 
They will not come again. 

[Bending her ear to the ground. 
Hark, hark ! aye, hark ! 
They arc all there : I hear their hollow sound 
Full many a fathom doA\n. 

Theo. Be still, poor troubled soul! they'll ne'er return — 
They are for ever gone. Be well assured 
Thou slialt from henceforth have a cheerful home, 
AVith crackling fagots on thy midnight fire, 
r)lazing like day around thee ; and thy friends — 
Thy living, loving friends — still by thy side, 
To speak to thee and cheer thee. See, my Orra! 
They are beside thee now ; dost thou not know them ? 

Orra. No, no! athwart the wav'ring garish light. 
Things move and seem to be, and yet arc nothing. 

Elea. My gentle Orra! hast thou then forgot me? 
Dost not thou know my voice"? 

Orra. 'Tis like an old tune to my ear return'd. 
For there be those who sit in cheerful halls, 
And breathe sweet air, and speak with pleasant sounds; 
And once I liv'd with such; some years gone by, — 
I wot not now hoAV long. 

Hughohert. Keen words that rend my heart ! thou hadst a home, 
And one whose faith was pledged for thy protection. 

Urston. Be more composed, my Lord ; some faint remembrance 

Returns upon her, with the well-known sound 

Of voices once familiar to her ear. 

Let Alice sing to her some fav'rite tune, 

That may lost thoughts recall. 

[Alice sings. 

Orra. ILi, ha ! the witch'd air sings for thee bravely. 
Iloot owls through mantling fog for matin birds? 
Ft lures not me. — I know thee well enough : 
The bones of murder'd men thy measure beat, 
.\nd fleshless heads nod to thee — Off, I say! 

199 



THE PHRENZY OF ORRA. 

Why are yc here? — That is the blessed sun. 

Elea. Ah, Orra ! do not look upon us thus ; 
These are the A'oices of thy loving friends 
That speak to thee ; this is a friendly hand 
That presses thine so kindly. 

Hart. Oh, grievous state ! what terror seizes thee ? 

Orra. Take it away ! It was the swathed dead : 
I know its clammy, chill, and bony touch. 
Come not again ; I'm strong and terrible now : 
Mine eyes have look'd upon all dreadful things ; 
And when the earth yawns, and the hell-blast sounds, 
I'll bide the trooping of unearthly steps, 
With stiff, clench'd, terrible strength. 

Hugh. A raurd'rer is a guiltless wretch to me. 

Hart. Be patient ; 'tis a momentary pitch ; 
Let me encounter it. 

Orra. Take oiF from me thy strangely-fasten'd eye ; 
I may not look upon thee — yet I must. 
Unfix thy baleful glance. Art thou a snake? 
Something of horrid power within thee dwells. 
Still, still that powerful eye doth suck me in 
Like a dark eddy to its wheeling core. 
Spare me ! O spare me, Being of strange power, 
And at thy feet my subject head I'll lay. 

Elea. Alas, the piteous sight ! to see her thus. 
The noble, generous, playful, stately Orra! 

Theo. Out on thy hateful and ungenerous guile ! 
Think'st thou I'll suffer o'er her wretched state 
The slightest shadow of a base control? 

\_Raising Orra from the growul. 
No ; rise, thou stately flower with rude blasts rent ; 
As honour'd art thou with thj^ broken stem 
And leaflets sti'ew'd, as in thy summer's pride. 
I've seen thee worshipp'd like a regal Dame, 
With every studied form of mark'd devotion, 
AVliilst I, in distant silence, scarcely proifer'd 
Ev'n a plain soldier's courtesy; but now, 

200 



JOANNA BAILLIE. 

No liege man to his crowned mistress sworn. 

Bound and devoted is as I to thee ; 

And he who offers to thy alter'd state 

The slightest seeming of dirainish'd rev'rence, 

Must in my blood — (To Ilartman) — O pardon me, my friend ! 

Thou'st Avrnng my heart. 

Hart. Nay, do thou pardon me, — I am to blame : 
Thy nobler heart shall not again be wrung. 
But Avhat can now be done ? O'er such wild ravings 
There must be some control. 

Theo. O none ! none ! none ! but gentle sympathy, 
And watchfulness of love. 

My noble Orra! 
Wander where'er thou wilt, thy vagrant steps 
Shall follow'd be by one, who shall not weary, 
Nor e'er detach him from his hopeless task ; 
Bound to thee now as fairest, gentlest beauty 
Could ne'er have bound him. 

Alice. See how she gazes on him Vi'ith a look. 
Subsiding gradually to softer sadness. 
Half saying that she knows him. 

El. There is a kindness in her changing eye. 



201 



GRAIIAME. 



THE SABBATH. 



How still the morning of the hallow'd day! 
Mute is tlie voice of rural labour, hush'd 
The plough-boy's whistle, and the milk-maid's song. 
The scythe lies glittering in the de-\vy wreath 
Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers, 
That yestermorn bloom'd wa:ving in the breeze ; 
Sounds the most faint attract the ear, — the hum 
Of early bee, the trickling of the dew, 
The distant bleating, midway up the hill. 
Calmness sits throned on yon unmoving cloud. 
To him who wanders o'er the upland leas. 
The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale; 
And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark 
Warbles his heaven-tun'd song ; the lulling brook 
jMurmurs more gently down the deep-worn glen ; 
While from yon lowly roof, whose circling smoke 
O'er-mounts the mist, is heard, at intervals. 
The voice of Psalms, the simple song of praise. 
With dove-like wings Peace o'er yon village broods ; 
The dizzying mill-wheel rests ; the anvil's din 
Hath ceas'd ; all, all around is quietness. 
Less fearful on this day, the limping hare 
202 




stops, and looks back, and stops, and looks on man. 
Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse, set free, 
Unhecdful of the pasture, roams at large ; 
And as his stiff unwieldy bulk he rolls. 
His iron-arni'd hoofs gleam in the morning ray. 
203 



SUNDAY TO THE SHIPWRECKED. 



SUNDAY TO THE SHIPWRECKED. 



On! my heart bleeds to think there noAV may live 

One hapless man, the remnant of a wreck, 

Cast on some desert island of that main 

Immense, which stretches from the Cochin shore 

To Acapulco. Motionless he sits, 

As is the rock his seat, gazing Avhole days, 

With wandering eye, o'er all the Avatery Avaste : 

Now striving to belicA-e the albatross 

A sail appearing on the horizon's a erge ; 

Now vowing ne'er to cherish other hope 

Tlian hope of death. Thus pass his A\'eary hours. 

Till welcome eAcning Avarn him that 'tis time 

Upon the AA'ell-notch'd calendar to mark 

Another day, another dreary day, — 

Changeless. 

But yet by him. 
The Hermit of the Deej), not unobserA-'d 
The Sabbath passes ; — ' tis his great delight. 
Each scA-enth eve he marks the farewell ray. 
And loACS, and sighs to think, — that setting sun 
Is noAv empurpling Scotland's mountain-tops, 
Or, higher risen, slants atliAA-art her A'ales, 
Tinting AA-ith yelloAA^ light the qui\"ering throat 
Of day-spring lark, Avhile Avoodland birds beloAv 
Chaunt in the dcAA'y shade. Thus, all night long 
He watches, AAdiile the rising moon describes 
The progress of the day in happier lands. 
And now he almost fancies that he hears 
The chiming from his native village church : 
204 



GRAHAME. 

And now lie sings, and fondly hopes the strain 
May be the same that sweet ascends at home 
In congregation full, — Avhei-e, not without a tear. 
They are remember'd who in ships behold 
The wonders of the deep: he sees the hand, 
The widow'd hand, that veils the eye sufFus'd ; 
He sees his orphan'd boy look up, and strive 
The widow'd heart to soothe. His spirit leans 
On God— 

— Calm he views 
The far-exploding firmament, and dares 
To hope — one bolt in mercy is reserved 
For his release; and yet he is resign'd 
To live: because full well he is assur'd 
Thy Hand does lead him, thy right Hand upholds. 
And thy right Hand does lead him! Lo! at last, 
One sacred eve, he hears, faint from the deep, 
Music remote, swelling at intervals. 
As if the embodied spirit of sweet sounds 
Came slowly floating on the shoreward wave : 
The cadence well he knows — a hymn of old. 
Where sweetly is rehears'd the lowly state 
Of Jesus, when his birth was first announced, 
In midnight music, by an angel choir. 
To Bethlehem's shepherds, as they Avatch'd their flocks 
Breathless, the man forlorn listens, and thinks 
It is a dream. Fuller the voices swell ; 
He looks, and starts to see, moving along, 
A fiery Avave, (so seems it,) crescent form'd, 
Approaching to the land; straightway he sees 
A towering whiteness; 'tis the heaven-fiU'd sails 
That Avaft the mission'd men, who have renounced 
Their homes, their country, nay, almost the Avorld, 
Bearing glad tidings to the farthest isles 
Of ocean, that the dead shall rise again. 
Forward the gleam-girt castle coast-Avise glides, 
It seems as it Avould pass aAvay. — To cry 
205 



A SABBATH WALK IN SUMMER. 

The wretched man in vain attempts, in vain, 

Powerless his voice as in a f'eai-ful dream — 

Not so his hand; he strikes a flint, — a blaze 

Mounts from the ready heap of wither' d leaves : 

The music ceases ; accents harsh succeed, 

Harsh, but most grateful; downward drop the sails 

Ingulf'd the anchor sinks; the boat is launch'd ; 

But cautious lies aloof till morning dawn : 

Oh then the transport of the man, unus'd 

To other human voice beside his own, — 

Plis native tongue to hear! he breathes at home, 

Though earth's diameter is interpos'd. 

Of perils of the sea he has no dread. 

Full well assur'd the mission'd bark is safe. 

Held in the hollow of the Almighty's Hand. 



A SABBATH WALK IN SUMMER. 



Delightful is this loneliness; it calms 
My heart ; pleasant the cool beneath these elms. 
That throw across the stream a moveless shade. 
Here Nature in her midnoon whisper speaks : 
How peaceful every sound! the ring-dove's plaint, 
Moan'd from the twilight centre of the grove, 
AVhile every other woodland lay is mute. 
Save when the wren flits from her down-coved nest, 
And from the root-sprigs trills her ditty clear, — 
The grasshopper's oft pausing chirp, — the buzz, 
Angrily shrill, of moss-entangled bee, 
206 




That, soon as loos'd, booms with full twang away. — 
The sudden rushing of the minnow shoal, 
Scar'd from the shallows by my passing tread. 
Dimpling the Avatcr glides, with here and there 
A glossy fly, skimming in circlets gay 
The treacherous surface, while the quick-eyed trout 
Watches his time to spring : or. from abo\e, 
207 



A SABBATH WALK IN SUMMER. 

Some feather'd dam, purveying 'mong the boughs, 

Darts from her perch, and to her plumeless brood 

Bears off the prize : — sad emblem of man's lot ! 

He, giddy insect, from his native leaf, 

(Where safe and happily he might have lurk'd,) 

Elate upon ambition's gaudy wings, 

F"orgetful of his origin, and, worse, 

Unthinking of his end, flies to the stream; 

And if from hostile vigilance he 'scape. 

Buoyant he flutters but a little while. 

Mistakes the inverted image of the sky 

For heaven itself, and, sinking, meets his fate. 

Now, let me trace the stream up to its source 

Among the hills ; its runnel by degrees 

Diminishing, the murmur turns a tinkle. 

Closer and closer still the banks approach. 

Tangled so thick with pleaching bramble-shoots. 

With brier, and hazel branch, and hawthorn spray, 

That, fain to quit the dingle, glad I mount 

Into the open air ; gratcfid the breeze 

That fans my throbbing temples ! smiles the plain 

Spread wide below : how sweet the placid view ! 

But, oh ! more sweet the tliought, heart-soothing thought, 

Tliat thousand and ten thousands of the sons 

Of toil partake this day the common joy 

Of rest, of peace, of viewing hill and dale. 

Of breathing in the silence of the Avoods, 

And blessing lIiM who gave the Sabbath-day. 

Yes, my heart flutters Avith a freer throb, 

To think that now the townsman wanders forth 

Among the fields and meadows, to enjoy 

The coolness of the day's decline ; to see 

His children sport around, and simply pull 

The flower and weed promiscuous, as a boon, 

Which proudly in his breast they smiling fix. 



208 



GRAHAME. 

Again 1 turn me to the hill, and trace 
The wizard stream, now scarce to be discern'cl ; 
Woodless its banks, but green with I'erny leaves. 
And thinly strcw'd with heath-bells up and down. 

Now, when the downAvard sun has left the glens. 
Each mountain's rugged lineaments arc traced 
Upon the adverse slope, where stalks gigantic 
The shepherd's shadow thrown across the chasm. 
As on the topmost ridge he homcAvard hies. 
How deep the hush! the torrent's channel, di-y. 
Presents a stony steep, the echo's haunt. 
But hark, a plaintive sound floating along! 
'Tis from yon heath-roof 'd shielin; now it dies 
Away, now rises full ; it is the song 
Which He who listens to the halleluias 
Of choiring Seraphim delights to hear; 
It is the music of the heart, the voice 
Of venerable age, — of guileless youth, 
In kindly circle seated on the ground 
Before their wicker door. Behold the man ! 
The grandsire and the saint; his silvery locks 
Beam in the parting ray; before him lies, 
Upon the smooth-cropt sward, the open Book, 
His comfort, stay, and ever-new delight; 
While heedless, at his side, the lisping boy 
Fondles the lamb that nightly shares his couch. 



209 



BLOO^IFIELD. 



LAMBS AT PLAY 



Loosed from the winding Lane, a joyful throng, 

Sec o'er yon pasture how they pour along! 

Giles round their boundaries takes lus usual stroll, 

Sees every gate secur'd, and fences whole: 

High fences, proud to charm the gazing eye, 

Where many a nestling first essays to fly; 

■NVliere blows the woodbine, faintly streak'd with red. 

And rests on every bough its tender head ; 

Round the young ash its twining branches meet. 

Or crown the hawthorn with its odour sweet. 

Say, ye that know, ye \^ho have felt and seen 

Spring's morning smiles, and soul-enlivening green, 

Say, did you give the thrilling transport way? 

Did your eye brighten, Avhen young lambs at plav 

Lcap'd o'er your path with animated pride, 

Or grazed in merry clusters by your side ? 

Ye who can smile, to wisdom no disgrace, 

At the arch meaning of a kitten's face ; 

If spotless innocence, and infant mirth. 

Excites to praise, or gives i-eflection birth ; 

Li shades like these pursue your favourite joy, 

Midst Nature's revels, sjDorts that never cloy. 

A few begin a short but vigorous race. 
And indolence, abash'd, soon flies the place : 
Thus challeng'd forth, see thither one by one. 
From every side assembling playmates run ; 
310 




A thousand Avily antics mark their stay, 
A starting crowd impatient of delay. 
Like tlie fond dove, from fearful prison freed, 
Each seems to say, " Come, let us try our speed ;'* 
Away they scour, impetuous, ardent, strong, 
The green turf trembling as they bound along ; 
Adown the slope, then up the hillock climb, 
Where every mole-hill is a bed of thyme. 
There panting stop ; yet scarcely can refrain ; 
A bird, a leaf, will set them off again : 
Or, if a gale with strength unusual blow, 
Scattering the wild-brier roses into snow. 
Their little limbs increasing efforts try, 
Like the torn tlower the fair assemblage fly. 
L'll 



THE FARMER'S BOY IN THE FIELDS. 



THE FARMER'S BOY IN THE FIELDS. 



Shot up from broad rank blades that droop below, 
The nodduig wheat-ear forms a graceful bow, 
With milky kernels starting full, weigh' d down. 
Ere yet the sun hath tinged its head with brown ; 
Whilst thousands in a flock, for ever gay, 
Loud-chirping sparrows welcome in the day, 
And from the mazes of the leafy thorn 
Drop one by one upon the bending corn. 
Giles with a pole assails their close retreats, 
And round the grass-grown dewy border beats ; 
On either side completely overspread. 
Here branches bend, there corn o'ertops his head. 
Green covert, hail ! for thro' the varying year 
No hours so sweet, no scene to him so dear. 
Here Wisdom's placid eye delighted sees 
His frequent intervals of lonely ease. 
And with one ray his infant soul inspires, 
Just kindling there her never-dying fires, 
Whence solitude derives pecvdiar charms. 
And heaven-directed thought his bosom warms. 
Just where the parting bough's light shadows play. 
Scarce in the shade, nor in the scorching day, 
Stretch'd on the turf he lies, a peopled bed, 
Wliere swarming insects creep around his head. 
The small dust-colour'd beetle climbs with pain 
O'er the smooth plantain leaf, a spacious plain ! 
Thence higher still, by countless steps convey'd. 
He gains the summit of a shiv'ring blade. 
And flirts his filmy Avings, and looks around, 
Exulting in his distance from the ground. 
212 







The tender speckled moth here dancing seen, 
The vaulting grasshopper of glossy green, 
And all prolific Summer's sporting train, 
Tlieir little lives by various powers sustain. 
But what can unassisted vision do ? 
What, but recoil where most it would pursue ; 
His patient gaze but finish with a sigh, 
"V^Hien music waking speaks the sky-lark nigh ! 
213 



THE FARMER'S BOY IN THE FIELDS. 

Just starting from the corn she cheerly sings. 
And trusts with conscious pride her downy wings ; 
.Stm louder breathes, and in the face of day 
Mounts up, and calls on Giles to mark her way- 
Close to his eyes his hat he instant bends, 
And forms a friendly telescope, that lends 
Just aid enough to dull the glaring light, 
And place the wandering bird before his sight; 
Yet oft beneath a cloud she sweeps along, 
Lost for awhile, yet pours her varied song. 
He views the spot, and as the cloud moves by, 
Again she stretches up the clear blue sky; 
Her foi'm, her motion, undistinguish'd quite. 
Save when she wheels direct from shade to light : 
The fluttering songstress a mere speck became, 
Like fancy's floating bubbles in a dream; 
He sees her yet, but yielding to repose, 
Unwittingly his jaded eyelids close. 
Delicious sleep! From sleep who could forbear, 
With no more guilt than Giles, and no more care ? 
Peace o'er his slumbers waves her guardian wing, 
Nor Conscience once disturbs him with a sting: 
Pie wakes refresh'd from every trivial pain. 
And takes his pole and brushes round again. 



214 



ELLIOTT. 



BURNS. 

That heaven's belov'd die early, 

Prophetic Pity mourns; 
But old as Truth, although in youth. 

Died giant-hearted Burns. 

Oil that I Avere the daisy 

That sank beneath his plough, 
Or, "neighbour meet," that "skylark sweet!" 

Say, are they nothing now? 

That mouse, "our fellow mortal," 

Lives deep in Nature's heart ; 
like earth and sky, it cannot die 

Till earth and sky depart. 

Thy Burns, child-honour'd Scotland ! 

Is many minds in one ; 
With thought on thought, the name is f'raiiglit. 

Of glory's peasant son. 

Thy Chaucer is thy Milton, 

And might have been thy Tell ; 
As Hampden fought, thy Sidney wrote. 

And would have fought as well. 

Be proud, man-childcd Scotland ! 

Of earth's unpolished gem ; 
And "Bonny Doon," and "heaven aboon.'" 

For Burns hath hallowed them. 
215 



A POET'S EPITAPH. 

I3c proud, though sin-dishonour'd. 

And grief baptized thy child ; 
As rivers run, in shade and sun, 

He ran his courses wild. 

Grieve not, though savage forests 

Look'd grimly on the wave, 
Where dim-eyed flowers and shaded .bowers 

Seem'd living in the grave. 

Grieve not, though, by the torrent. 
Its headlong course was riven. 

When o'er it came, in clouds and flame, 
Niagara from heaven ! 

For sometimes gently flowing. 
And sometimes chafed to foam, 

O'er slack and deep, by wood and steej), 
lie sought his heavenly home. 



A POET'S EPITAPH. 



Stop, Mortal! Here thy brother lies, 

The Poet of the poor ; 
His books were rivers, woods, and skies, 

The meadow and the moor ; 
His teachers were the torn heart's wail, 

The tyrant and the slave. 
The street, the factory, the jail. 

The palace — and the grave ! 
Sin met thy brother every where ! 

And is thy brother blamed? 
216 



ELLIOTT. 

From passion, danger, doubt, and care, 

He no exemption claim'd. 
The meanest thing, earth's feeblest worm 

He fear'd to scorn or hate ; 
But, honouring in a peasant's form 

The equal of the great. 
He bless'd the Steward, whose wealth makes 

The poor man's little more ; 
Yet loath'd the haughty wretch that takes 

From plunder'd labour's store. 
A hand to do, a head to plan, 

A heart to feel and dare — 
Tell man's worst foes, here lies the man 

Who drew them as they are. 



SPRING. 



Again the violet of our early days 

Drinks beauteous azure from the golden sun. 
And kindles into fragrance at his blaze ; 

The streams, rejoic'd that Winter's work is done, 

Talk of to-morrow's cowslips, as they run. 
Wild apple, thou art blushing into bloom! 

Thy leaves are coming, snowy-blossom' d thorn ! 
Wake, buried lily! spirit, quit thy tomb! 

And thou, shade-loving hyacinth, be born ! 

Then, haste, sweet rose ! sweet Avoodbinc, hymn the morn, 
'Whose dew-drops shall illume with pearly light 

Each grassy blade that thick embattled stands 
From sea to sea, while daisies infinite 

Ujilifl in praise their little glowing hands. 

O'er every hill that under heav'n expand?. 
217 










MOORE. 
THE LAMENT OF THE PERI FOR HINDA. 

Farewell, — farewell to thee, Araby's daughter I 
(Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea,) 

No pearl ever lay, under Oman's green water. 
More pure in its shell than thy Spirit in thee. 

Oh ! fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing, 
How light was thy heart till love's witchery came, 

Like the wind of the South o'er a summer lute blowin_t 
And hush'd all its music and wither'd its frame ! 



But long, upon Araby's green sunny highlands, 
Shall maids and their lovers remember the doom 

218 



MOORE. 

Of her, who lies sleeping among the Pearl Islands, 
With nought but the sea-star to light up her tomb. 

And still, when the merry date-season is burning. 

And calls to the palm-groves the young and the old. 

The happiest there, from their pastime returning, 
At sunset, will weep when thy story is told. 

The young village-maid, when with flowers she dresses 
Her dark flowing hair for some festival day, 

Will think of thy fate till, neglecting her tresses. 
She mournfully turns from the mirror away. 

Nor shall Iran, belov'd of her Hero! forget thee — 
Though tyrants watch over her tears as they start. 

Close, close by the side of that Hero she'll set thee, 
Embalm' d in the innermost shrine of her heart. 

I'arewell — be it ours to embellish thy pillow 

With every thing beauteous that grows in the deep ; 

Each flower of the rock and each gem of the billow 
Shall sweeten thy bed and illumine thy sleep. 

Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber 
That ever the sorrowing sea-bird has Avept ; 

With many a shell, in whose hoUow-wreath'd chamber, 
We, Peris of Ocean, by moonlight have slept. 

We'll dive where the gardens of coral lie darkling. 
And plant all the rosiest stems at thy head ; 

We'll seek where the sands of the Caspian arc sparkling. 
And gather their gold to strew over thy bed. 

Farewell — farewell — until Pity's SAveet fountain 
Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave. 

They'll weep for the Chieftain who died on that momitaiu 

They'll weep for the Maiden who sleeps in this wave. 

•2\0 



NOURMAHAL. 
NOURMAHAL. 

THE BEAUTY OP EXPRESSION. 

There's a beauty, for ever unchangingly bright, 
Like the long sunny la^^se of a summer day's light, 
Shining on, shining on, by no shadow made tender, 
Till Love falls asleep in the sameness of splendour. 
This was not the beauty, — oh! nothing like this, 
That to young Noukmahal gave such magic of bliss ; 
But that loveliness, ever in motion, which j)lays 
Like the light upon autumn's soft shadowy days, 
Now here and now there, giving warmth as it flies 
From the lips to the cheek, from the cheek to the eyes, 
Now melting in mist, and now breaking in gleams, 
Like the glimpses a saint hath of Ileav'n in his dreams! 
When pensive, it seem'd as if that very grace. 
That charm of all others, Avas born with her face ; 
And Avhen angry — for ev'n in the tranquillest climes 
Light breezes will ruffle the blossoms sometimes — 
The short, passing anger but seem'd to awaken 
New beauty, like flow'rs that are sweetest Avhen shaken. 
If tenderness touch'd her, the dark of her eye 
At once took a darker, a heavenlier dye. 
From the depth of whose shadow, like holy revealings 
From innermost shrines, came the light of her feelings ! 
Then her mirth — oh ! 'twas sportive as ever took Aving 
From the heart with a^ burst, like the wild-bird in spring 
lUum'd by a Avit that would fascinate sages, 
Yet playful as Peris just loos'd from their cages, 
^\^lile her laugh, full of life, Avithout any control 
But the SAA'-eet one of gracefulness, rung from her soul ; 
And where it most sparkled no glance could discover, 
In lip, cheek, or eyes, for she brighten'd all OAcr, — 
Like any fair lake that the breeze is upon, 
When it breaks into dimples and laughs in the sun. 

220 



WOLFE. 

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
As his corse to the rampart we hurried; 
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 

We buried him darkly, at dead of night. 
The sods with our bayonets turning, 
I>y the struggling moon-beam's misty light. 
And the lantern dimly burning. 

No useless coffin enclosed his breast. 
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him ; 
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, 
With his martial cloak around him. 

Few and short were the prayers we said, 

And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; 

And we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead. 

And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 

We thought, as we hoUow'd his narrow bed. 

And smooth' d down his lonely pillow. 

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head. 

And we far away on the billow ! 

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, 
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ; — 
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on 
In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 

But half of our hea\'y task was done, 
AVhen the clock struck the hour for retiring ; 

2-2] 







And we heard the distant and random gun 
Of the enemy sullenly firing. 



Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 
From the field of his fame fresh and gory; 
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone- 
But we left him alone ■\\'ith his glory ! 



CUNNINGHAM. 



THE POET'S BRIDAL-DAY SONG. 



Oh ! my love's like the steadfast sun, 
Or streams that deepen as they run. 
Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years. 
Nor moments between light and tears, 
Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain. 
Nor dreams of glory dream'd in vain ; 
Nor mirth, nor sweetest song that flows 
To sober joys, and softer woes, 
Can make my heart or fancy flee, 
One moment, my sweet wife, from theo. 

E\"en while I muse, I see thee sit 

In maiden bloom and matron wit ; 

Fair, gentle as Avhen first I sued 

Ye seem, but of sedater mood ; 

Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee, 

As Avhen, beneath Arbigland tree. 

We stay'd and Avoo'd, and thought the moon 

Set on the sea an hour too soon, 

Or linger'd 'mid the falling dew. 

When looks were fond, and words Avere fcAv. 

Though I see smiling at my feet 
FiA^e sons and one fair daughter SAA'cet, 
And time and care and birthtime aa'ocs 
TlaA^e dimm'd thine eye, and touch'd thy rose, 
223 



THE POET'S BRIDAL-DAY SONG. 

To thee, and thoughts of thee, belong 
Whate'er charms me in tale or song. 
Wlien words descend, like dews unsought. 
With gleams of deep enthusiast thought, 
And Fancy in her heaven flies free, 
They come, my love, they come from thee. 

Oh, when more thought we gave, of old, 
To silver, than some give to gold, 
'Twas sweet to sit and ponder o'er 
How we should deck our humble bower ; 
'Twas sweet to pull, in hope, with thee, 
The golden fruit of Fortune's tree; 
And sweeter still to choose and twine 
A garland for that brow of thine : 
A song--\vreath which may grace my Jean, 
While rivers flow, and woods grow green. 

At times there come, as come there ought. 
Grave moments of sedater thought. 
When P^ortune frowns, nor lends our night 
One gleam of her inconstant light ; 
And Hope, that decks the peasant's bower. 
Shines like a rainbow through the shower. 
Oh then I see, while seated nigh, 
A mother's heart shine in thine eye, 
And proud resolve and purpose meek 
Speak of thee more than words can speak 
I think this wedded life of mine 
The best of all things not divine. 



22-t 



^^^^^ s£^ -^. "^^- 




A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA. 



A "WET sheet and a flowing sea, 

A wind that follows fast, 
And fills the white and rustling sail, 

And bends the gallant mast ; 
And bends the gallant mast, my boys, 

While, like the eagle free. 



A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA. 

Away the good ship flies, and leaves 
Okl England on the lee. 

"Oh for a soft and gentle wind!" 

I heard a fair one cry ; 
IJut give to me the snoring breeze, 

And white waves heaving high ; 
And white waves heaving high, my boys, 

The good ship tight and free 

The world of waters is our home, 

And merry men are we. 

There's tempest in yon horned moon, 

And lightning in yon cloud ; 
And hark the music, mariners ! 

The wind is piping loud ; 
The wind is piping loud, my boys. 

The lightning flashing free — 
While the hollow oak our palace is, 

Our heritage the sea. 



22G 



WALKER. 
TO A GIRL IN HER THIRTEENTH YEAR. 

TiiY smiles, thy talk, thy aimless plivys, 

So beautiful approve thee, 
80 winning light are all thy Avays, 

I cannot choose but love thee. 
Tliy balmy breath upon my brow 

Is like the summer air, 
As o'er my cheek thou leanest now. 

To plant a soft kiss there. 

lliy steps are dancing toward the bound 

Between the child and woman. 
And thoughts and feelings more profound. 

And other years are coming : 
And thou shalt be more deeply fair, 

More precious to the heart. 
But never canst thou be again 

That lovely thing thou art! 

And youth shall pass, with all the brood 

Of i'ancy-fed affection ; 
And grief shall come with womanhood, 

And Avakcn cold reflection. 
Thou'lt learn to toil, and watch, ami weep 

O'er pleasures unreturning, 
I^ike one who wakes from pleasant sleep 

Unto the cares of morning. 

Nay, say not so ! nor cloud the sun 

Of joyous expectation, 
Ordain'd to bless the little one, 

The freshlinji of creation ! 




Nor doubt that He who thus doth feed 
Her early lamp with gladness, 

Will be her present Help in need, 
Her Comforter in sadness. 



Smile on, then, little winsome thing! 

All rich in Nature's treasure. 
Thou hast within thy heart a spring 

Of self-renewing pleasure. 
Smile on, fair child, and take thy fill 

Of mirth, till time shall end it ; 
'Tis Nature's wise and gentle will — 

And who shall reprehend it? 



HOGG. 



THE KAPTURE OF KILMENY. 



Bonny Ivilmeny gaed xip the glen ; 

J5ut it wasna to meet Duncira's men, 

Nor the rosy monk of the isle to see, 

For Ivilmeny was jjure as pure could be. 

It was only to hear the Yorlin sing. 

And pu' the cress-flower round the spring ; 

The scarlet hypp and the hindberrye, 

And the nut that hangs frae the hazel-tree ; 

For Kilmeny was pure as pui'e could be. 

But lang may her minny look o'er the wa\ 

And lang may she seek i' the green-wood shaw ; 

Lang the laird of Duneira blame, 

And lang, lang greet, or Kilmeny come hanic I 

^Vhen many a day had come and fled, 
AVhen grief grew calm, and hope was dead. 
AVhen mass for Kilmeny's soul had been sung. 
When the bedesman had pray'd, and the dead-boll run 
Late, late in a gloamin' when all was still, 
When the fringe Avas red on the westlin' hill. 
The wood was sere, the moon i' the Avane, 
The reek o' the cot hung over the plain. 
Like a little wee cloud in the Avorld its lane : 
Wlien the ingle low'd with an ciry leme. 

229 



THE EAPTURE OF KILMENY. 

Late, late in tlie gloamin' Kilmeny came hame ' 

" Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been ? 

Lang hae we sought baith holt and den ; 

By linn, by ford, by green-wood tree, 

Yet you are halesome and fair to see. 

Where gat you that joup o' the lily scheen ? 

That bonny snood o' the birk sae green ? 

And these roses, the fairest that ever were seen ? 

Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been ?" 

Kilmeny look'd up with a lovely grace, 

J>ut nac smile was seen on Kilmeny' s face ; 

As still was her look, and as still was her e"e, 

As the stillness that lay on the emerant lea. 

Or the mist tliat sleeps on a Avaveless sea. 

For Kilmeny had been she knew not where. 

And Kilmeny had seen what she could not declare; 

Kilmeny had been where the cock never crew, 

Where the rain never fell, and the wind never blew 

But it seem'd as the harp of the sky had rung, 

And the airs of heaven play'd round her tongue, 

"When she spake of the lovely forms she had seen. 

And a land where sin had never been ; 

A land of love and a land of light, 

Withouten sun, or moon, or night ; 

^Miere the river swa'd a living stream, 

And the light a pure celestial beam : 

The land of vision it would seem, 

A still, an everlasting dream. 

In yon green-wood there is a waik, 

And in that waik there is a wene, 

And in that wene there is a maike. 

That neither has flesh, blood, nor bane ; 

And down in yon green-wood he walks his lane. 

In that green wene Kilmeny la}'. 
Her bosom happ'd wi' the flowerets gay ; 

23^ 



HOGG. 

But the air Avas soft, and the silence deep, 
And bonny Kilmeny fell sound asleep; 
She kend nae niair, nor open'd her e'e. 
Till M-akcd by the hynms of a far countrye. 
She 'waken'd on a coiieh of the silk sae slim, 
All stri[)ed wi' the bars of the rainbow's rim ; 
And lovely beings round were rife, 
Who erst had travelled mortal life; 
And aye they smiled, and 'gan to specr, 
"What spirit has brought this mortal here?" — 
They clasped licr waist and her hands sae fair, 
They kissed her cheek, and they kemed her hair. 
And round came many a blooming fere, 
Saying, "Bonny Kilmeny, yc'rc welcome here! 

•''Oh, Avould the fairest of mortal kind 
Aye keep the holy truths in mind 
That kindred spirits their motions see, 
AVho watch their ways with anxious e'e, 
And grieve for the guilt of humanityc ! 
Oh, SAveet to Heaven the maiden's prayer, 
And the sigh that heaves a bosom sae fair! 
And dear to Heaven the words of truth, 
And the praise of virtue frae beauty's mouth ! 
And dear to the viewless forms of air. 
The minds that kythe as the body fair! 
bonny Kilmeny! free frae stain. 
If ever you seek the world again^ — 
That Avorld of sin, of sorrow, and har — 
Oh, tell of the joys that are Avaiting here ; 
And tell of the signs you shall shortly see ; 
Of the times that are noAV, and the times that shall In- 

They lifted Kilmeny, they led her aAvay, 
And she Avalk'd in the light of a sunless day: 
The sky AA-as a dome of crystal bright, 

2^1 




Tlie fountain of vision, and fountain of light ; 
'I'lie emerald fields were of dazzling glow, 
And the flowers of everlasting blow. 
Then deep in the stream her body they laid, 
That her youth and beauty never might fade : 
And they smiled on heaven, when they saw her lie 
In the stream of life that wander'd by. 
And she heard a song, she heard it sung. 
She kend not Avhere ; but sae sweetly it rung, 
It fell on her ear like a dream of the morn, 

232 



HOGG. 

•' Oil ! blest bo the day Kilmeny was born ! 
Now shall the land of the spirits see, 
Now shall it ken Avhat a woman may bo ! 
The sun that shines on the world sae bright, 
A borrow'd glcid of the fountain of light ; 
And the moon that sleeks the sky sae dun. 
Like a gouden bow, or a beamless sun, 
Shall wear away, and be seen nae mair. 
And the angels shall miss them travelling the air. 
But lang, lang after baith night and day. 
When the sun and the world have elyed away ; 
"When the sinner has gane to his waesomc doom, 
Kilmeny shall smile in eternal bloom !" 

Then Kilmeny begg'd again to see 

The friends she had left in her own countrye, 

To tell of the place where she had been. 

And the glories that lay in the land unseen ; 

To warn the living maidens fair, 

The loved of Heaven, the spirits' care, 

That all whose minds unmeled remain 

Shall bloom in beauty when time is gane. 

AVith distant music, soft and deep, 
They lull'd Kilmeny sound asleep ; 
And when she awakened, she lay her lane. 
All happed with flowers in the green-wood wene. 
When seven long years were come and fled ; 
When grief was calm, and hope was dead ; 
When scarce was remember'd Kilmeny's name, 
Late, late in a gloaniin' Kilmeny came hame ! 
And oh, her beauty was fair to see, 
But still and steadfast was her e'e ! 
Such beauty bard may never declare, 
For there was no pride nor passion there; 
And the soft desire of maiden's een 

233 



THE KAPTURE OF KILMENY. 

In that mild face could never be seen. 
Her seymar was the lily flower, 
And her cheek the moss-rose in the shoAver, 
And her voice like the distant melodve. 
That floats along the twilight sea. 




But she loved to raike the lanely glen, 
And keeped afar frae the haunts of men ; 
Iler holy hymns unheard to sing, 
To suck the flowers, and drink the spring. 
IJut wherever her peaceful form appear'd, 
Hie wild beasts of the hill Avere cheer'd; 
234 



HOGG. 

The wolf play'd blithely round the field, 
The lordly bison low'd and kneel'd ; 
The dun deer woo'd with manner bland, 
And cower'd ancath her lily hand. 
And when at even the Avoodlands rung. 
When hymns of other Avorlds she sung 
In ecstasy of sweet devotion, 
Oh, then the glen was all in motion ! 
The wild beasts of the forest came. 
Broke from their bughts and ftiulds the tame, 
And goved around, charmed and amazed ; 
Even the dull cattle crooned and gazed, 
And murmur' d, and look'd with anxious pain 
For something the mystery to explain. 
The buzzard came Avith the throstle-cock ; 
The corby left her houf in the rock ; 
The blackbird alang wi' the eagle flew ; 
The hind came tripping o'er the dcAV ; 
The wolf and the kid their raike began, 
And the tod, and the lamb, and the leveret ran ; 
The hawk and the hern attour them hung, 
And the merl and the mavis forhooyed their young; 
And all in a peaceful ring Averc hurl'd ; — 
It Avas like an CA-e in a sinless Avorld! 

When a month and a day had come and gane, 
Kilmcny sought the green-Avood wane ; 
There laid her doAVn on the leaves sae green, 
And Kilmeny on earth Avas ncA'cr mair seen. 
But O, the AA'ords that fell from her mouth. 
Were Avords of wonder, and words of truth ! 
But all the land were in fear and dread, 
For they kendna AA'hethcr she AA^as living or dead ; 
It wasna her hame, and she couldna remain ; 
She left this Avorld of sorroAV and pain. 
And return'd to the Land of Thought again. 

23.-> 



SPEAGUE. 
TPIE WINGED WORSHIPPERS. 

ADDRESSEl) TO TWO SWALLOWS THAT FLEW INTO THE CHAUNCEY 
PLACE CHURCH DURING DIVINE SERVICE. 

Gay, guiltless pair, 
What seek ye from the fields of heaven ? 

Ye have no need of prayer, 
Yc have no sins to be forgiven. 

Wliy perch ye here, 
Wliere mortals to their Maker bend? 

Can your pure spirits fear 
The God ye never could offend ? 

Ye never knew 
The crimes for which we come to weep. 

Penance is not for you, 
Blessed wanderers of the upper deej). 

To you 'tis given 
I'o wake sweet Nature's untaught lays ; 

Beneath the arch of heaven 
To chirp away a life of praise. 

Then spread each Aving, 
Far, far above, o'er the lakes and lands. 

And join the choirs that sing 
Til yon blue dome not reared with hands. 

Or, if ye stay, 
To note the consecrated hour, 

Teach me the airy way. 
And let me try your envied power. 
23G 



SPRAGUE. 

Above the crowd, 
On upward Avings could I but fl}. 
I'd bathe in yon bright cloud, 
And seek the stars that gem the sky. . 

'Twere Heaven indeed 
Through fields of trackless light to soar, 

On Nature's charms to feed, 
And Nature's own crcat God adore. 



THE BROTHERS. 

We are but two — the others sleep 
Through Death's untroubled nighl ; 

"NW" arc but two — O, let us keep 
The link that binds us bright ! 

Heart leaps to heart — the sacred flood 
That warms us is the same ; 

That good old man — his honest blood 
Alike we fondly claim. 

We in one mother's arms were lockcd- 

Long be her love repaid ; 
In the same cradle we were rocked. 

Round the same hearth Ave played. 

Our boyish sports Avere all the same. 
Each little joy and woe ; — 

Let manhood keep alive the flame, 
Lit up so long ago. 

We are but two — be tliat the band 

To hold us till Ave die ; 
Shoulder to .shoulder let us stand, 

Till side by side we lie. 
237 




HEMANS. 



THE CORONATION OF INEZ DE CASTRO. 



There was music on the midnight 
From a royal fane it roll'd; 
238 



HEMANS. 

And ;i mighty bell, each pause between, 

Sternly and slowly toU'd. 
Strange was their mingling in the sky, 

It luish'd the listener's breath ; 
I^\Dr the music spoke of triumph high, 

The lonely bell, of death ! 

There was hurrying through the midnight, 

A sound of many feet ; 
l>ut they fell with a muffled fearfulness 

Along the shadowy street : 
And softer, fainter grew their tread, 

As it near'd the minster gate, 
Whence a broad and solemn light was shed 

From a scene of royal state. 

Full glow'd the strong red radiance 

la the centre of the nave, 
^V^lcre the folds of a purple canopy 

Swept down in many a wave ; 
Loading the marble pavement old 

With a weight of gorgeous gloom ; 
For something lay 'midst their fretted gold. 

Like a shadow of the tomb. 

And Avithin that rich })avilion. 

High on a glittering throne, 
A woman's form sat silently, 

'Midst the glare of light alone. 
Her jcAvell'd robes fell strangely still — 

The drapery on her breast 
Scem'd with no pulse beneath to thrill. 

So stonelike was its rest ! 

Hut a peal of lordly music 
Shook e'en the dust below, 
230 



THE CORONATION OF INEZ DE CASTEO. 

^\''hen the burning gold of the diadem 

Was set on her pallid brow ! 
Then died away that haughty sound, 

And from the encircling band 
Stepp'd prince and chief, 'midst the hush iirofound, 

AVith liomagc to her hand. 

AMiy jiass'd a faint, cold shuddering 

Over each martial frame, 
As one by one, to touch that hand, 

Noble and leader came? 
AVas not the settled aspect fair? 

Did not a queenly grace, 
Under the parted ebon hair, 

Sit on the pale, still face? 

Death! death! canst tliou be lovely 

Unto the eye of life? 
Is not each pulse of the quick high breast 

With thy cold mien at strife? — 
It was a strange and fearful sight. 

The crown upon that head, 
The glorious robes, and the blaze of light, 

All gather' d round the Dead ! 

And beside her stood in silence 

One with a brow as pale. 
And Avhite lips rigidly compress'd. 

Lest the strong heart should fail : 
King Pedro, with a jealous eye. 

Watching the homage done 
By the land's flower and chivalry 

To her, his martyr'd one. 

But on the face he looked not. 
Which once his star had been ; 
240 



HEMANS. 

To every form his glance was turn'd, 

Save of the breathless queen : 
Though something, won from the grave's embrace, 

Of her beauty still was there, 
Its hues were all of that shado\Ay place, 

It was not for him to beai-. 

Alas ! the crown, the sceptre, 

The treasures of the earth, 
And the priceless love that pour'd those gifts. 

Alike of wasted worth ! 
The rites are closed : — bear back the dead 

Unto the chamber deep ! 
Lay down again the royal head. 

Dust Avith the dust to sleep ! 

There is music on the midnight — 

A requiem sad and slow, 
As the mourners through the sounding aisle 

In dark procession go ; 
And the ring of state, and the starry crown, 

And all the rich array, 
Are borne to the house of silence down. 

With her, that queen of clay ! 

And tearlessly and firmly 

King Pedro led the train ; 
But his face was Avrapt in his folding robe, 

When they lower'd the dust again. 
'Tis hush'd at last the tomb above — 

Hymns die, and steps depart : 
Who call'd thee strong as Death, O Love ? 

Mightier thou wast and art. 



241 



THE MESSAGE TO THE DEAD. 



THE MESSAGE TO THE DEAD. 

Thou 'rt passing hence, my brother! 

O my earUest friend, farewell ! 
Thou 'rt leaving me, without thy voice, 

In a lonely home to dwell ; 
And from the hills, and from the liearth. 

And from the household tree. 
With thee departs the lingering mirth, 

The brightness goes Avith thee. 

But thou, my friend, my brother ! 

Thou 'rt speeding to the shore 
Where the dirge-like tone of parting words 

Shall smite the soul no more ! 
And thou wilt see our holy dead, 

The lost on earth and main : 
Into the sheaf of kindred hearts 

Thou wilt be bound again ! 

Tell, then, our friend of boyhood 

That yet his name is heard 
On the blue mountains, whence his youth 

Pass'd like a swift, bright bird. 
The light of his exulting brow, 

The vision of his glee. 
Are on me still — Oh ! still I trust 

That smile again to see. 

And tell our fair young sister, 

The rose cut down in spring, 
That yet my gushing soul is fiird 

With lays she lov'd to sing. 
2-42 



HEMANS. 

Her soft deep eyes look through my dreams, 

Tender and sadly sweet ; — 
Tell her my heart within me burns 

Once more that gaze to meet. 

And tell our Avhite-hair'd fiithoi-, 

That in the paths he trod, 
The child he lov'd, the last on earth, 

Yet walks and worships God. 
Say, that his last fond blessing yet 

Rests on my soul like dew. 
And by its hallowing might I trust 

Once more his face to view. 

And tell our gentle mother. 

That on her grave I pour 
The sorrows of my spirit forth. 

As on her breast of yore. 
Happy thou art that soon, how soon, 

Our good and bright will see! 
O brother, brother! may I dwell, 

Erelong, with them and thee I 



THE RETURN. 

" Hast thou come with the heart of thy childhood back ? 
The free, the pure, the kind ?" 
— So murmur'd the trees in my homeward track. 
As they play'd to the mountain-wind, 

"Hath thy soul been true to its early love?" 
Whisper'd ray native streams ; 
243 



THE RETURN. 

" Hath the spmt, nursed amidst hill and grove, 
Still revered its first high dreams?" 

" Hast thou borne in thy bosom the holy prayer 
Of the child in his parent-halls?" 
Thus breath'd a voice on the thrilling air, 
From the old ancestral walls. 

" Hast thou kept thy faith with the faithful dead, 
Whose place of rest is nigh ? 
With the father's blessing o'er thee shed, 
With the mother's trusting eye?" " 

Tlien my tears gush'd forth in sudden rain. 

As I answer' d — " O ye shades ! 
I bring not my childhood's heart again 

To the freedom of your glades. 

" I have turn'd from my first pure love aside, 
O bright and happy streams ! 
Light after light, in my soul have died 
The day-spring's glorious dreams. 

" And tbe holy prayer from my thoughts hath pass'd- 
The prayer at my mother's knee; 
Darken'd and troubled I come at last, 
Home of my boyish glee! 

"But I bear from my childhood a gift of tears, 
To soften and atone ; 
And oh ! ye scenes of those bless'd years, 
They shall make me again your own." 



244 



MITFORD. 



RIENZI AND HIS DAUGHTER. 

Rienzi. Claudia — nay, start not ! Thou art sad ; to-day 
I found thee sitting idly, 'midst thy maids, 
A pretty, laughing, restless band, who plied 
Quick tongue and nimble finger, mute and pale 
As marble ; those unseeing eyes were fix'd 
On vacant air; and that fair brow was bent 
As sternly, as if the rude stranger. Thought — 
Age-giving, mirth-destroying, pitiless Thought — 
Had knock'd at thy young giddy brain. 

Claudia. Nay, father. 

Mock not thine own poor Claudia. 

Rien. Claudia used 

To bear a merry heart, with that clear voice. 
Prattling ; and that light busy foot astir 
In her small housewifery, the blithest bee 
That ever Avrought in hive. 

Cla. Oh ! mine old home ! 

Rien. "What ails thee, lady-bird? 

Cla. Mine own dear home ! 
Father, I love not this new state; these halls. 
Where comfort dies in vastness ; these trim maids, 
Wliose service wearies me. Oh ! mine old home ! 
My quiet, pleasant chamber, Avith the myrtle 
Woven round the casement ; and the cedar by, 
Shading the sun ; my garden overgrown 
With flowers and herbs, thick-set as grass in fields ; 

245 



m^:^ 



~ :gp:^-o^FS^I^^^^^(-^f b^>.v - 




My pretty snow-white doves ; my kindest nurse ; 
And old Camillo. Oli ! mine OA\-n dear home ! 

Rien. '^Vhy, simple child, thou hast thine old, fond nurse, 
And good Camillo, and shalt have thy doves. 
Thy mvrtle flowers, and cedars ; a whole province 

246 



MITFORD. 

Laid in a garden, an' thou wilt. My Claudia, 

Hast tbou not learnt thy power? Ask Orient gems. 

Diamonds and sapphii-es, in rich caskets, wrought 

By cunning goldsmiths ; sigh for rarest birds 

Of farthest Ind, like winged flowers, to flit 

Around thy stately bower; and, at a wish, 

The precious toys shall wait thee. Old Camillo! 

Thou shalt have nobler servants, emperors, kings, 

Electors, princes ! not a bachelor 

In Christendom but would right proudly kneel 

To my fair daughter. 

Cla. Oh ! mine own dear home ! 

llien. Wilt have a list to choose from? 
Listen, sw^eet ! 
If the tall cedar, and the branchy myrtle, 
And the "vvhite doves, were tell-tales, I would ask them 
Whose was the shadow on the sunny wall? 
And if, at eventide, they heard not oft 
A tuneful mandoline, and then a voice, 
Clear in its manly depth, whose tide of song 
O'erwhelm'd the quivering instruments ; and then 
A world of whispers, mix'd with low response. 
Sweet, short, and broken, as divided strains 
Of nightingales. 

Cla. Oh, father! father! 

Pden. Well ! 

Dost love him, Claudia? 

Cla. Father ! 

Bien. Dost thou love 

Young Angelo? Yes? Saidst thou yes? That heart. 
That throbbing heart of thine, keeps such a coil, 
I cannot hear thy words. He is return'd 
To Kome ; he left thee on mine errand, dear one. 
And now — Is there no casement mp'tle-wreatli'd, 
No cedar in our courts, to shade to-night 
The lover's song? 

247 



SONG. 

Cla. Oh, father! father! 

Rien. Now, 
Back to thy maidens, with a lighten'd heart. 
Mine own beloved child. Thou shalt be first 
In Rome, as thou art fairest ; never princess 
Brought to the proud Colonna such a dower 
As thou. Young Angelo hath chosen his mate 
From out an eagle's nest. 

Cla. Alas ! alas ! 
I tremble at the height. Whene'er I think 
Of the hot barons, of the fickle people, 
And the inconstancy of power, I tremble 
For thee, dear father. 

Eien. Tremble ! let them tremble : 
I am their master, Claudia! whom they scorn'd, 
Endured, protected. — Sweet, go dream of love ! 
I am their master, Claudia ! 



SONG. 



Hail to the gentle bride ! the dove 
High nested in the column's crest! 

Oh, welcome as the bird of love. 
Who bore the olive-sign of rest! 

Hail to the gentle bride ! the flower 

Whose garlands round the column twine ! 

Oh, fairer than the citron bower, 

More fragrant than the blossom'd vine ! 

Hail to the gentle bride ! the star 

Wliose radiance o'er the column beams ! 

Oh, soft as moonlight seen afar — 

A silver shine on trembling streams ! 
218 




s^i,>-* 



SIGOURNEY. 

THE INDIAN SUMMER. 

When was the red man's summer 1 

When the rose 
Hung its first banner out? Wlien the gray rock, 
Or the brown heath, the radiant kalmia clothed? 
Or when the loiterer by the reedy brooks 
Started to see the proud lobelia glow 
Like living flame? Wlien through the forest gleam'd 
The rhododendron? or the fragrant breath 
Of the magnolia swept deliciously 
O'er the half laden nerve? 



No. Wlien the groves 
In fleeting colors wrote their own decay, 
And leaves fell eddying on the sharpen'd blast 
That sang their dirge ; when o'er their rustling bed 
249 



THE INDIAN SUMMER. 

The red deer sprang, or fled the' shrill-voiced quail, 

Heavy of wing and feai'ful ; when, with heart 

P^oreboding or depress'd, the white man mark"d 

The signs of coming winter : then began 

The Indian's joyous season. Then the haze, 

Soft and illusive as a fairy dream, 

Lapp'd all the landscape in its silvery fold. 

The quiet rivers that were wont to hide 

'Neath shelving banks, beheld their course betray'd 

By the white mist that o'er their foreheads crept. 

While WTapp'd in morning dreams, the sea and sky 

Slept 'neath one curtain, as if both Avere merged 

In the same element. Slowly the sun. 

And all reluctantly, the spell dissolved 

And then it took upon its parting wing 

A rainbow glory. 

Gorgeous was the time. 
Yet brief as gorgeous. Beautiful to thee. 
Our brother hunter, but to us replete 
With musing thoughts in melancholy train. 
Our joys, alas ! too oft were woe to thee, 
Yet ah, poor Indian ! whom we fain would drive 
Both from our hearts, and from thy father's lands. 
The perfect year doth bear thee on its croAvn, 
And when we would forget, repeat thy name. 



2r,o 



SIGOURNEY. 



THE HOLY DEAD. 



Wherefore I praised the dead who are already dead, more than the living 
who are j-et alive." — Solomox. 



TiiEY dread no storm that loA\^ers, 

No perish'd joys bewail ; 
Tliey pluck no thorn-clad flowers, 

Nor drink of streams that fail : 
There is no tear-drop in their eye, 

No change upon their brow ; 
Their placid bosom heaves no sigh, 

Though all earth's idols bow. 

Who are so greatly blest? 

From whom hath sorrow fled ? 
Who share such deep, unbroken rest 

Where all things toil? The dead .' 
The holy dead. "NVliy weep ye so 

Above yon sable bier? 
Thrice blessed ! they have done with woe. 

The living claim the tear. 

Go to their sleeping bowers. 

Deck their low couch of clay 
With earliest spring's soft breathing flowers ; 

And when they fade away, 
T'hink of the amaranthine wreath, 

The garlands never dim. 
And tell me why thou fly'st from death, 

Or hid'st thy friends from him. 
251 



TALK WITH THE SEA. 

We dream, but they awake ; 

Dread visions mar our rest ; 
Through thorns and snares our way we take, 

And yet we mourn the blest ! 
For spirits round the Eternal Throne 

How vain the tears we shed ! 
They are the living, they alone, 

Whom thus we call the dead. 



TALK WITH THE SEA. 



I SAID with a moan, as I roamed alone. 

By the side of" the solemn sea, — 
' Oh cast at my feet, Avhich thy billows meet. 

Some token to comfort me. 
'Mid thy surges cold, a ring of gold 

I have lost, with an amethyst bright, 
Thou hast locked it so long, in thy casket stronj 

That the rust must have quenched its light. 

' Send a gift, I pray, on thy sheeted spray. 

To solace my drooping mind, 
For Tm sad and grieve, and erelong must leave 

This rolling globe behind." 
Then the Sea answered, " Spoils are mine. 

From many an argosy. 
And pearl-drops sleep in my bosom deep, 

liut naught have I there for thee !" 



SIGOURNEY. 

"When I mused before, on this rock-bound shore, 

The beautiful walked with me, 
She hath gone to her rest in the churchyard's breast 

Since I saw thee last, thou Sea! 
Restore ! restore ! the smile she wore, 

When her cheek to mine was pressed. 
Give back the voice of the fervent soul 

That could lighten the darkest breast!" 

But the haughty Sea, in its majesty 

Swept onward as before. 
Though a surge in wrath from its rocky path. 

Shrieked out to the sounding shore — 
"Thou hast asked of our king a harder thing 

Than mortal e'er claimed before. 
For never the wealth of a loving heart, 

Could Ocean or Earth restore." 



253 



HEBER. 



THE PASSAGE OF THE RED SEA. 



With heat o'erlabour'd and the length of way, 
On Ethan's beach the bands of Israel lay. 
'Twas silence all, the sparkling sands along ; 
Save where the locust trill'd her feeble song, 
Or blended soft in drowsy cadence fell 
The wave's low whisper, or the camel's bell. — • 
'Twas silence all ! — the flocks for shelter fly 
Where, waving light, the acacia shadows lie ; 
Or where, from far, the flattering vapours make 
The noontide semblance of a misty lake : 
While the mute swain, in careless safety spread, 
With arms enfolded, and dejected head, 
Dreams o'er his wondrous call, his lineage high, 
And, late reveal'd, his children's destiny. — 
For, not in vain, in thraldom's darkest hour. 
Had sped from Amram's sons the word of power 
Nor fail'd the dreadful wand, whose godlilie sway 
Could lure the locust from her airy way ; 
With reptile Avar assail their proud abodes. 
And mar the giant pomp of Egypt's gods. 
Oh, helpless gods ! who nought avail'd to shield 
From fiery rain your Zoan's favour'd field! — 

25i 



HEBER. 

Oh, helpless gods! who saw the curdled blood 
Taint the pure lotus of your ancient flood, 
And four-fold night the wondering earth enchain, 
.While Memnon's orient harp was heard in vain! — 
Such musings held the tribes, till now the west 
With milder influence on their temples prest; 
And that portentous cloud, which all the day 
Hung its dark curtain o'er their weary way, 
(A cloud by day, a friendly flame by night,) 
Roll'd back its misty veil, and kindled into light! — 
Soft fell the eve : — But, ere the day was done, 
Tall waving banners streak'd the level sun ; 
And wide and dark along the horizon red, ' 
In sandy surge the rising desert spread. — 
" Mark, Israel, mark !" — On that strange sight intent, 
In breathless terror, every eye was bent ; 
And busy faction's fast-increasing hum, 
And female voices shriek, "They come! they come!" 
They come, they come, in scintillating show 
O'er the dark mass the brazen lances glow; 
And sandy clouds in countless shapes combine, 
As deepens or extends the long tumultuons line ; — 
And fancy's keener glance e'en now may trace 
The threatening aspects of each mingled race : 
P"'or many a coal-black tribe and cany spear. 
The hireling guards of Misraim's throne, were there. 
From distant Gush they troop'd, a warrior train, 
Siwah's green isle and Sennaar's marly plain : 
On either Aving their fiery coursers check 
The parch' d and sinewy sons of Amalek : 
While close behind, inured to feast on blood, 
Deck'd in Behemoth's spoils, the tall Shangalla strode. 
'Mid blazing helms and bucklers rough -with gold, 
Saw ye how swift the scythed chariots roll'd? 
Lo, these are they Avhom, lords of Afric's fates. 
Old Thebes hath pour'd through all her hundred gates. 



THE PASSAGE OF THE RED SEA. 

Mother of armies ! — How the emeralds glow'd, 

Where, flushed with power and vengeance, Pharaoh rode ! 

And stoled in white, those brazen wheels before, 

Osiris' ark his swarthy wizards bore ; 

And, still responsive to the trumpet's cry. 

The priestly sistrum murmur'd — Victory ! — 

Why swell these shouts that rend the desert's gloom ? 

Whom come ye forth to combat ? — warriors, whom ? 

These flocks and herds — this faint and weary train — 

Red from the scourge and recent from the chain ? — 

God of the poor, the poor and friendless save ! 

Giver and Lord of freedom, help the slave ! — 

North, south, and west, the sandy whirlwinds fly, 

The circling horns of Egypt's chivalry. 

On earth's last margin throng the weeping train : 

Their cloudy guide moves on : — " And must we swim the main T 

'Mid the light spray their snorting camels stood, 

Nor bath'd a fetlock in the nauseous flood — 

He comes — their leader comes ! — the man of God 

O'er the wide waters lifts his mighty rod. 

And onward treads. — The circling waves retreat, 

In hoarse deep murmurs, from his holy feet ; 

And the chased surges, inly roaring, show 

The hard wet sand, and coral hills below. 

With limbs that falter, and with hearts that swell, 
Down, down they pass — a steep and slippery dell — 
Around them rise, in pristine chaos hurl'd, 
The ancient rocks, the secrets of the world; 
And flowers that blush beneath the ocean green, 
And caves, the sea-calves' low-roof'd haunt, are seen. 
Dawn, safely down the narrow pass they tread ; 
The beetling waters storm above their head: 
While far behind retires the sinking day, 
And fades on Edom's hills "its latest ray. 

Yet not from Israel fled the friendly light, 
0)* dark to them, or cheerless came the night. 

256 



IIEBER. 

Still in their van, along that dreadful road, 

Blazed broad and fierce the brandish'd torch of God. 

fts meteor glare a ten-fold lustre gave, 

On the long mirror of the rosy wave : 

While its blest beams a sun-like heat supply, 

Warm every cheek, and dance in e\'ery eye — 

To them alone — for Misraim's Avizard train 

Invoke for light their monster-gods in vain : 

Clouds heap'd on clouds their struggling sight confine, 

And ten-fold darkness broods above their line. 

Yet on they fare, by reckless vengeance led. 

And range unconscious through the ocean's bed : 

Till midway now — that strange and fiery form 

Show'd his dread visage lightening through the storm ; 

With withering splendour blasted all their might. 

And break their chariot-wheels, and marr'd their coursers' flight. 

"Fly, Misraim, fly!" — The ravenous floods they see. 

And, fiercer than the floods, the Deity. 

" Fly, Misraim, fly !" — From Edom's coral strand 

Again the prophet stretch'd his dreadful wand : — 

With one wild crash the thundering w^aters sweep. 

And all is waves — a dark and lonely deep — 

Yet o'er those lonely waves such murmurs past. 

As mortal wailing swell'd the nightly blast ; 

And strange and sad the whispering breezes bore 

The groans of Egypt to Arabia's shore. 

Oil ! welcome came the morn, Avhere Israel stood 
In trustless wonder by th' avenging flood ! 
Oh ! welcome came the cheerful morn, to show 
The drifted wi-eck of Zoan's pride below ; 
The mangled limbs of men — the broken car — 
A few sad relics of a nation's war : 
Alas, how few! — Then, soft as Elim's well. 
The precious tears of new-born freedom fell. 
And he, whose harden'd heart alike had borne 
The house of bondage and th' oppressor's scorn. 

2;-) 7 H 



LINES ADDRESSED TO MRS. HEBER. 

The stubborn slave, by hope's new beams subdued, 

In faltering accents sobb'd his gratitude — 

TUl, kindling into warmer zeal, around 

The virgin timbrel waked its silver sound : 

And in fierce joy, no more by doubt supprest, 

The struggling spirit thi'obb'd in Miriam's breast. 

She, with bare arms, and fixing on the sky 

The dark transparence of her lucid eye, 

Pour'd on the winds of heaven her wild sweet harmony. 

''Where now," she sang, "the tall Egyptian .spear? 
On's sun-like shield, and Zoan's chariot, where ? 
Above their ranks the whelming Avaters spread. 
Shout, Israel, for the Lord hath triumphed !" — 
And every pause between as Miriam sang. 
From tribe to tribe the martial thunder rang, 
And loud and far their stormy chorus spread,— 
" Shout, Israel, for the Lord hath triumphed !" 



LINES ADDRESSED TO MRS. HEBER. 



If thou wert by my side, my love. 
How fast would evening fail. 

In green Bengola's palmy grove, 
Listenuig the nightingale ! 

If thou, my love, wert by my side, 

My babies at my knee, 
IIoAv gayly would our pinnace glide 

O'er Gunga's mimic sea! 

258 



HEBER. 

I miss thee at the dawning gray, 

When, on our deck reclined, 
In careless ease my limbs I lay 

And woo the cooler Avind. 

I miss thee when by Gunga's stream 

My twilight steps I guide, 
But most beneath the lamp's pale beam 

I miss thee from my side. 

I spread my books, my pencil try 

The lingering noon to cheer, 
But miss thy kind approving eye. 

Thy meek attentive ear. 

r>ut when of morn and eve the star 

Beholds me on my knee, 
I feel, though thou art distant far. 

Thy prayers ascend for me. 

Then on ! then on ! where duty leads, 

My course be onward still, 
O'er broad Ilindostan's sultry mead, 

O'er bleak Almorah's hill. 

That course nor Delhi's kingly gates, 

Nor wild Malwah detain ; 
For sweet the bliss us both awaits 

By yonder western main. 

Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say, 

Across the dark blue sea, 
But ne'er were hearts so light and gay 

As then shall meet in thee ! 
2->i) 



LINES. 



LINES 



WRITTEN TO A MARCH C05IP0SED IN IMITATION OF A MILITARY BAND. 

I SEE them on their wmcling way, 
Above their ranks the moon-beams play, 
And nearer yet, and yet more near, 
The martial chorus strikes the ear. 

They're lost and gone, — the moon is past, 
The wood's dark shade is o'er them cast, 
And fainter, faintei', fointer still. 
The dim march Avarbles up the hill. 

Again, again, — the pealing drum, 

The clashing horn — they come ! they come ! 

And lofty deeds and daring high, 

Blend with their notes of victory. 

Forth, forth, and meet them on their way, 
The trampling hoof brooks no delay; 
The thrilling fife, the pealing drum. 
How late — but oh, how loved they come ! 



260 



f' 



'■ '|^\v 




SOUTHEY. 



TJIE VISIT OF MADOC— A SCENE AMONG THE WELSH HILLS. 



Now luitli Prince IMadoc left the holy Isle, 
And homeward to AberfraAv, through the wilds 
or Arvon, bent his course. A little way 

2G1 



THE VISIT OF MAUOC. 

He turned aside, by natural impulses 

Moved, to behold Cadwallon's lonely hut. 

That lonely dwelling stood among the hills 

By a grey mountain-stream ; just elevate 

Above the winter torrents did it stand. 

Upon a craggy bank ; an orchard slope 

Arose behind, and joyous was the scene 

In early summer, when those antic trees 

Shone with their blushing blossoms, and the flax 

Twinkled beneath the breeze its liveliest green. 

But save the flax-field and that orchard slope, 

All else was desolate, and now it wore 

One sober hue ; the narrow vale, which wound 

Among the hills, was gi'ey with rocks, that peer'd 

Above its shallow soil ; the mountain side 

Was loose with stones bestrewn, which oftentimes 

Clatter'd adown the steep, beneath the foot 

Of straggling goat dislodged ; or lower'd with crags. 

One day, when winter's work hath loosen'd them. 

To thunder down. All things assorted well 

With that grey mountain hue ; the low stone lines, 

Wliich scarcely seem'd to be the work of man. 

The dwelling rudely rear'd with stones unhewn. 

The stubble flax, the crooked apple-trees, 

Grey with their fleecy moss and mistletoe. 

The white-bai'k'd birch, now leafless, and the ash 

Whose knotted roots were like the drifted rock 

Through which they forced their way. Adown the vale. 

Broken by stones, and o'er a stony bed, 

Koll'd the loud mountain-stream — 

When Madoc came, 
A little child was sporting by the brook. 
Floating the fallen leaves, that he might see them 
Whirl in the eddy now, and now be driven 
Down the descent, now on the smoother stream 

262 



SOUTHEY. 

Sail onward far away. But when he heard 

The horse's tramp, he raised his head and watch'd 

The Prince, who now dismounted and drew nigh. 

The little boy still fix'd his eyes on him, 

His bright blue eyes ; the wind just moved the curh 

That cluster'd round his brow ; and so he stood, 

His rosy cheeks still lifted up to gaze 

In innocent wonder. Madoc took his hand, 

And now had ask'd his name, and if he dwelt 

There in the hut ; when from that cottage-door 

A woman came, who, seeing Madoc, stopt 

With such a fear — for she had cause to fear — 

As when a bird, returning to her nest. 

Turns to a tree beside, if she behold 

Some prying boy too near the dear retreat. 

Howbeit, advancing, soon she now approach'd 

The approaching Prince, and timidly inquired 

If on his Avayfare he had lost the track. 

That thither he had stray' d. "Not so," replied 

The gentle Prince ; " but having known this place. 

And its old inhabitants, I came once more 

To see the lonely hut among the hills." 



THE WORLD OF WOE. 

Whoe'er hath loved with venturous step to tread 
The chambers dread 
Of some deep cave, and seen his taper's beam 
Lost in the arch of darkness overhead. 

And mark'd its gleam 
Playing afar upon the sunless stream. 

Where from their secret bed. 
And course unknoAATi, and inaccessible. 
The silent waters well ; 
2G3 



THE WORLD OF WOE. 

Whoe'er hath trod such caves of endless night, 
He knows, when measuring back the gloomy way, 
With what delight refresh'd his eye 
Perceives the shadow of the light of day, 
Through the far portal slanting, where it falls 
Dimly reflected on the Avatery w^alls: 
How heavenly seems the sky ; 
And how, with quicken'd feet, he hastens up, 

Eager again to greet 
The living woi'ld and blessed sunshine there, 
And drink, as from a cup 
Of joy, with thirsty lips, the open air. 

Far other light than that of day there shone 

Upon the travellers, entering Padalon. 
They too in darkness enter'd on their way ; 
But far before the car, 
A glow, as of a fiery furnace light, 
I'iird all before them. 'T^vas a light which made 
Darkness itself appear 
A thing of comfort, and the sight, dismay'd. 
Shrunk inward from the molten atmosphere. 
Their way was through the adamantine rock 
Which girt the World of Woe ; on either side 
Its massive walls arose, and overhead 
Arch'd the long passage ; onward as they ride. 
With stronger glare the light around them spread ; 

And lo ! the regions dread. 
The World of Woe before them, opening wide. 

There rolls the fiery flood, 
Girding the realms of Padalon around. 
A sea of flame it seem'd to be, 
Sea without bound ; 
For neither mortal nor immortal sight 
Could pierce across through that intensest light. 
264 



i-V '■ 




THALABA IN THE TENT OF MOATH. 



It Avas the wisdom and the will of Heaven, 
That in a lonely tent had cast 
The lot of Thalaba ; 
There might his soul develop best 
Its strengthening energies ; 
There might he from the world 
2G5 



THALABA IN THE TENT OF MOATH. 

Keep his heart pure and uncontammate, 
Till at the written hour he should be found 
Fit servant of the Lord, without a spot. 

Years of his youth, how rapidly ye fled 

In that beloved solitude ! 

Is the morn fair, and doth the freshening breeze 

Flow with cool current o'er Lis cheek? 

Lo! underneath the broad-leaved sycamore, 

With lids half-closed, he lies. 

Dreaming of days to come. 

His dog beside him, in mute blandishment. 

Now licks his listless hand; 

Now lifts an anxious and expectant eye, 

Courting the wonted caress. 

Or comes the Father of the Rains 
From his caA^es in the uttermost West, 
Comes he in darkness and storms? 
When the blast is loud ; 
When the Avaters fill 
The traveller's tread in the sands ; 
W^hen the pouring shower 
Streams adown the roof; 

"When the door-curtain hangs in heavier folds ; 
Wlien the out-strain'd tent flags loosely: 
Within there is the embers' cheerful glo\\', 
The sound of the familiar voice, 
The song that lightens toil, — 
Domestic Peace and Comfort are Avithin. 
Under the common shelter, on dry sand, 
The quiet camels ruminate their food ; 
The lengthening cord from Moath falls. 
As patiently the old man 

Entwines the strong palm-fibres ; by the heartli 
The damsel shakes the coffee-gi*ains, 
266 



SOUTHEY. 

That with Avavm fragrance fill the tent ; 
And while, with dexterous fingers, Thalaba 
Shapes the green basket, haply at his feet 
Her favourite kidling gnaws the twig, 
Forgiven plunderer, for Oneiza's sake. 

Or when the winter torrent rolls 

Down the deep-channell'd rain-course, foamingly, 

Dark with its mountain spoils, 

With bare feet pressing the wet sand. 

There wanders Thalaba, 

The rushing flow, the flowing roar, 

Filling his yielded faculties, 

A vague, a dizzy, a tumultuous joy. 

Or lingers it a vernal brook 

Gleaming o'er yellow sands? 

Beneath the lofty bank reclined, ' 

With idle eye he views its little waves. 

Quietly listening to the quiet flow ; 

While in tlie breathings of the stirring gale. 

The tall canes bend above. 

Floating like streamers in the wind 

Their lank uplifted leaves. 

Nor ricli, nor poor, was Moath ; God hath given 
Enough, and blest him with a mind content. 
No hoarded gold disquieted his dreams ; 
But ever round his station he beheld 
Camels that kncAV his voice. 
And home-birds, grouping at Oneiza's call. 
And goats that, morn and eve. 
Came with full udders to the damsel's hand. 
Dear child! the tent beneath whose shade they dwelt. 
Tt was her work ; and she had twined 
Ills girdle's many hues ; 
And he had seen his robe 
2G7 



THALABA IX THE TEXT OF ilOATH. 

Grow in Oneiza's loom. 
How often, with a memory-mingled joj 
Which made her mother live before his sight, 
He watch'd her nimble fingers thread the woof! 
Or at the hand-mill, when she knelt and toil'd, 
Toss'd the thin cake on spreading palm. 
Or fix'd it on the glowing oven's side 
With bare wet arm, and safe dexterity. 

'Tis the cool evening hour: 

The tamarind from the dew 

Sheathes its young fruit, yet gi'een. 

Before their tent the mat is spread ; 

The old man's solemn voice 

Intones the holy book. 

What if beneath no lamp-illumined dome, 

Its marble walls bedeck'd Avith flourish'd truth, 

Azure and gold adornment? Sinks the word 

With deeper influence from the Imam's voice 

Where in the day of congregation crowds 

Perform the duty-task? 

Their Father is their Pi'iest, 

The Stars of Heaven tlieir point of prayer, 

And tlie blue Firmament 

The glorious Temple, where they feel 

The present Deity. 

Yet through the purple glow of eve 
Shines dimly the white moon. 
The slacken'd bow, the quiver, the long lance, 
Rest on the pillar of the tent. 
Knitting light palm-leaves for her brother's brow. 
The dark-eyed damsel sits ; 
The old man tranquilly 
Up his curl'd pipe inhales 
The tranquillising herb. 
So listen they the reed of Thalaba, 
2C8 



SOUTHEY. 

While his skiU'd fingers modulate 

The low, sweet, soothing, melancholy tones. 

Or if he strung the pearls of poc.«y, 

Singing with agitated face 

And eloquent arms, and sobs that reach the heart, 

A tale of love and Avoe ; 

Then, if the brightening moon that lit his face. 

In darkness favour'd hers. 

Oh ! even Avith such a look, as fables say. 

The Mother Ostrich fixes on her egg. 

Till that intense affection 

Kindle its light of life. 

Even in such deep and breathless tenderness 

Oneiza's soul is centred on the youth, 

So motionless, with such an ardent gaze, 

Save when from her fidl eyes 

She Avipes aAvay the swelling tears 

That dim his image there. 

She caird him Brother ; was it sistoi'-love 
For which the silver rings, 

Round her smooth ankles and her tawny arms. 
Shone daily brightcn'd ? for a brother's eye 
Were her long fingers tinged. 
As when she trimm'd the lamp, 
And through the veins and delicate skin 
The light shone rosy? that the darken'd lids 
Gave yet a softer lustre to her eye? 
That with sucli pride she trick'd 
Her glossy tresses, and on holy-day 
Wreath'd tlie red floAver-crown round 
Their Avaves of glossy jet? 
lIoAv happily the days 
Of Thalaba Avent by ! 
Years of his youth, hoAV rapidly ye fled ! 
2G9 



SUNLIGHT ON THE OCEAN. 



SUNLIGHT ON THE OCEAN. 

To Bardscy was the Lord of Ocean bound ; 

Bardsey, the holy Islet, in whose soil 

Did many a Chief and many a Saint repose, 

Ilis great progenitors. lie mounts the skiff; 

The canvas swells before the breeze, the sea 

Sings round her sparkling keel, and soon tlie Lord 

Of Ocean treads the venerable shore. 

There was not, on that day, a speck to stain 

The azure heaven ; the blessed Sun alone 

Li unapproachable divinity 

Career'd, rejoicing in liis fields of light. 

How beautiful beneath the l)riglit blue sky 

The billows lieave ! one glowing green expanse. 

Save where along the bending line of shore 

Such hue is thrown, as when the peacock's neck 

Assumes its proudest tint of amethyst, 

Embathed in emerald glory. All the flocks 

Of Ocean are abroad; like floating foam 

The .sea-gulls rise and fall upon the waves; 

With long protruded neck the cormorants 

Wing their far flight aloft, and round and round 

The plovers wheel, and give their note of joy. 

It was a day that sent into the heart 

A summer feeling; even the insect swarms 

From their dark nooks and coverts issued forth, 

To sport through one day of existence more ; 

The solitary primro.se on the bank 

Secm'd now as though it had no cause to mourn 

Its bleak autumnal birth ; the rocks and shores. 

The forest and the everlasting hills, 

Smiled in that joyful sunshine, . . . they partook 

The universal blessing. 

270 



CAROLINE BOWLES (MRS. SOUTIIEY). 



SUNDAY EVENING. 



I SAT last Sunday evening, 
From sunset even till night, 

At the open casement w^atching 
The day's departing light. 

Such hours to me arc holy, 
Holier than tongue can tell, 

They fall on my heart like dew 
On the parched heather-bell. 

The Sun had shone bright all day — 
His setting Avas brighter still, 

But there sprang up a lovely air 
As he dropt down the western hill. 

The fields and lanes were swarming 
With holy-day folks in their best. 

Released from their six days' cai'es 
By the seventh day's peace and rest. 

1 heard the light-hearted laugh. 
The trampling of many feet — 

I saw them go merrily by, 

And to me the sight was sweet. 
271 



SUNDAY EVENING. 

There's a sacred soothing sweetness. 

A pervading spirit of bliss, 
Peculiar from all other times, 

In a Sabbath eve like this. 

Methinks, though I knew not the day, 
Nor beheld those glad faces, yet all 

Would tell me that Nature was keeping 
Some solemn festival. 

The steer and the steed in their pastures 
Lie down with a look of peace, 

As if they knew 'tAvas commanded 

That this day their labours should cease. 

The lark's vesper song is more thrilling 
As he mounts to bid Heaven good-night ; 

The brook sings a quieter tune — 
The sun sets in lovelier light — 

T^he grass, the green leaves, and the flowers 
Are tinged with more exquisite hues, 

More odorous incense from out them 
Steams up with the evening dews. 

So I sat last Sunday evening 

Musing on all these things, 
With that quiet gladliess of spirit 

No thought of this world brings — 

I watched the departing glory. 
Till its last red streak grew pale, 

And Earth and Heaven were woven 
In Twilight's dusky veil. 



MRS. SOUTHEY. 

Then the lark dropt down to his mate 
By her nest on the dcAvy ground ; 

And the stir of human life 

Died away to a distant sound — 

All sounds died away — the light laugh — 
The far footstep — the merry call — 

To such stillness, the pulse of one's heart 
Might have echoed a rose-leaf's fall — 

And, by little and little, the darkness 

Waved wider its sable Avings, 
Till the nearest objects and largest 

Became shapeless confused things — 

And, at last, all was dark — then I felt 
A cold sadness steal over my heart. 

And I said to myself, " Such is life ! 
So its hopes and its pleasures depart ! 

"And Avhen night comes — the dark night of age, 

What remaineth beneath the sun 
Of all that was lovely and loved? 

Of all we have learnt and done? 

"When the eye waxeth dim, and the ear 
To sweet music grows dull and cold. 

And the fancy burns low, and the heart — 
Oh, Heavens ! can the heart grow old ? 

"Then, what remaineth of life 

But the lees with bitterness fraught? 

What then?" — But I chcck'd as it rose. 
And rebuked that weak, wicked tlioutrlil. 



SUNDAY EVENING. 

And I lifted mine eyes up, and, lo ! 

An answer was wintten on high 
By the finger of God himself, 

In the depths of the dark blue sky. 

There appeared a sign in the east — 
A bright, beautiful, fixed star! — 

And I look'd on its steady light 
Till the evil thoughts fled afar — 

And the lesser lights of Heaven 

Shone out with their pale soft rays. 

Like the calm unearthy comforts 
Of a good man's latter day? — 

And there came up a sweet perfume 
From the unseen flowers below, 

Like the savour of virtuous deeds, 
Of deeds done long ago; 

Like the mem'ry of well-spent time — 
Of things that were holy and dear — 

Of friends, " departed this life 
In the Lord's faith and fear." 

So the burthen of darkness was taken 
From my soul, and my heart felt light 

And I laid me down to slumber 
With peaceful thoughts that night. 



274 




LEYDEN. 



TO THE EVENING STAR. 



How sweet thy modest light to view, 
F'air Stak, to love and lovers dcai- ! 



TO THE EVENING STAR. 

\Miile trembling on the falling dew 
Like beauty shining through a tear. 

Or, hanging o'er that mirror-stream, 
To mark that image trembling there, 

Thou seem'st to smile with softer gleam. 
To see thy lovely face so fair. 

Though, blazing on the arch of night, 
The moon thy timid beams outshine 

As far as thine each starry light ; — 
Her rays can never vie Avith thine. 

Thine are the soft enchanting hours 
When twilight lingers on the plain, 

And whispers to the closing flowers. 
That soon the sun will rise again. 

Thine is the breeze that, murmuring bland 
As mu!-ic, wafts the lover s s-igh, 

And bids the yielding heart expand 
In love's delicious ecstasy. 

Fair Star ! though I be doom'd to prove 
That rapture's tears are mix'd with pain, 

Ah ! still I feel 'tis sweet to love ! 
But sweeter to be lov'd again ! 



276 



LEYDEN. 



TO AN INDIAN GOLD COIN. 



Slave of the dark and dirty mine 1 
What vanity has brought thee here ? 

How can I love to see thee shine 

So bright, whom I have bought so dear? — 
The tent-ropes flapping lone I hear 

For twilight converse, arm in arm ; 
The jackal's shriek bursts on mine ear 

AVhen mirth and music wont to charm. 

l>y Cherical's dark wandering streams, 
Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild. 

Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams 
Of Teviot lov'd, chill, still, and mild. 
Of castled rocks stupendous pil'd 

By Esk or Eden's classic wave, 

Wliere loves of youth and friendship smifd, 

ITncurs'd by thee, vile yellow slave ! 

Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade ! 

The perish'd bliss of youth's first prime. 
That once so bright on fancy play'd. 

Revives no more in after time. 

Far from my sacred natal clime, 
I haste to an untimely grave ; 

The daring thoughts that soar'd sublime 
Are sunk in ocean's southern wave. 

Slave of the mine! thy yellow light 

Gleams baleful on the toml)-(ire drear — 

A gentle vision comes by night 

My lonely widow'd heart to cheer ; 

•-'77 



TO AN INDIAN GOLD COIN. 

Her eyes are dim with many a tear, 
That once were guiding stars to mine: 

Her fond heart throbs with many a fear!- 
I cannot bear to see thee shine. 

For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave, 
I left a heart that lov'd me true! 

I cross'd the tedious ocean-wave, 
To roam in climes unkind and new : 
The cold wind of the stranger blew 

Chill on my wither'd heart: — the grave 
Dark and untimely met my view — 

And all for thee, vile yellow slave ! 

Ha! com'st thou now so late to mock 

A wanderer's banish'd heart forlorn, 
Now that his frame the lightning shock 

Of sun-rays tipt with death has borne? 

From love, from friendship, countiy, torn, 
To memory's fond regrets the prey. 

Vile slave, thy yellow dross I scorn ! 
Go mix thee with thy kindred clay! 



27S 



CLARE. 



CLARE. 



MARY LEE. 



I HAVE traced the valleys fair 
In May morning's dewy air. 

My bonny Mary Lee ! 
Wilt thou deign the wreath to wear, 

Gather'd all for thee? 
They are not flowers of Pride, 
For they graced the dingle-side ; 
Yet they grew in Heaven's smile, 

My gentle Mary Lee ! 
Can they fear thy frowns the while, 

Though offered by me"? 

Here's the lily of the vale. 
That perfumed the morning gale, 

My fairy Mary Lee ! 
All so spotless and so pale, 

Like thine own purity. 
And might I make it known, 
'Tis an emblem of my own 
Love — if I dare so name 

My esteem for thee. 
Surely flowers can bear no blame, 

M}- bonny Mary Lee ! 
279 



MARY LEE. 

Here's the violet's modest blue, 

That 'neath hawthorns hides from ^ iew 

My gentle Mary Lee, 
Would show whose heart is true. 

While it thinks of thee. 
While they choose each lowly spot. 
The sun disdains them not ; 
I'm as lowly too, indeed, 

My charming Mary Lee ; 
So I've brought the flowers to plead, 

And win a smile from thee. 

Here's a wild rose just in bud : 
Spring's beauty in its hood, 

My bonny Mary Lee ! 
'Tis the first in all the Avood 

I could find for thee. 
Though a blush is scarcely seen, 
Yet it hides its Avorth Avithin, 
Like my love ; for I've no poAATr, 

My angel, Mary Lee, 
To speak unless the floAver 

Can make excuse for me. 

Though they deck no princely hulls. 
In bouquets for glittering balls. 

My gentle Mary Lee ! 
Richer hues than painted walls 

Will make them dear to thee : 
For the blue and laughing sky 
Spreads a grander canopy 
Than all wealth's golden skill. 

My charming Mary Lee ! 
Love Avould make tliem dearer still. 

That offers them to tliee. 
280 



CLARK. 

My wreathed fiowers are lew, 
Yet no fairer drink the dew, 

My bonny Mary Lee ! 
They may seem as trifles too — 

Not, I hope, to thee. 
Some may boast a richer prize 
Under pride and wealth's disgnise ; 
None a fonder offering bore 

Than this of mine to thee ; 
And can true love wish for more? 

Surely not, Mary Lee ! 



281 



BRAINARD. 



SALMON RIVER. 



Hie viridis tenera prsetexit arundine ripas 
Mincius. — Virgil. 



'Tis a sweet stream — and so, 'tis true, are all 
That undisturbed, save by the harmless brawl 
Of mimic rapid or slight waterfall. 

Pursue their way 
By mossy bank, and darkly waving wood, 
By rock, that since the Deluge fixed has stood. 
Showing to sun and moon their crisping flood 

By night and day. 

But yet there's something in its humble rank. 
Something in its pure wave and sloping bank, 
Where the deer sported, and the young fawn drank 

With unscared look : 
There's much in its wild history, that teems 
With all that's superstitious — and that seems 
To match our fancy and eke out our dreams, 

In that small brook. 

Havoc has been upon its peaceful plain, 
And blood has dropped there, like the drops of rain 
The corn grows o'er the still graves of the slain — 
And many a quiver, 

282 



BRAINARD. 

Filled from the reeds that grew on yonder hill, 
Has spent itself in carnage. Now 'tis still, 
And whistling ploughboys oft their runlets fill 
From Salmon River. 

Here, say old men, the Indian Magi made 
Their spells by moonlight; or beneath the shade 
That shrouds sequestered rock, or darkening glade, 

Or tangled dell. 
Here Philip came, and Miantonimo, 
And asked about their fortunes long ago. 
As Saul to Endor, that her witch might show 

Old Samuel. 

And here the black fox roved, and howled, and shook 
His thick tail to the hunters, by the brook 
Where they pursued their game, and him mistook 

For earthly fox; 
Thinking to shoot him like a shaggy bear. 
And his soft peltry, stript and dressed, to wear, 
Or lay a trap, and from his quiet lair 

Transfer him to a box. 

Such are the tales they tell. 'Tis hard to rhyme 

About a little and unnoticed stream, 

That few have heard of — but it is a theme 

I chance to love ; 
And one day I may tune my rye-straw reed, 
And whistle to the note of many a deed 
Done on this river — which, if there be need, 

I'll try to prove. 



283 



THE BLACK FOX OF SALMON RIVEK. 



THE BLACK FOX OF SALMON RIVER. 

How cold, how beautiful, how bright, 
The cloudless heaven above us shine^; ; 

But 'tis a howling winter's night, 
'Twould freeze the very forest pines ! 

" The Avinds are up, while mortals sleep ; 

The stars look forth when eyes are shut ; 
The bolted snow lies drifted deep 

Around our poor and lonely hut. 

" With silent step and listening cai', 
With bow and arrow, dog and gun, 

We'll mark his track, for his pro^A 1 we hear, 
NoAv is our time ! — come on, come on !" 

O'er many a fence, through many a wood, 
Following the dog's bewildered scent, 

In anxious haste and earnest mood, 
The Indian and the white man went. 

The gun is cocked, the bow is bent. 
The dog stands with uplifted paw, 

And ball and arrow swift are sent, 
Aimed at the prowler's very jaw. 

The ball, to kill that fox, is run 
Not in a mould by mortals made ! 

The arrow which that fox should shun 
Was never shaped from earthly reed ! 

The Indian Druids of the wood 

Know where the fatal arrows grow — 

They spring not by the summer flood, 

They pierce not through the winter snow ! 
28t 



BRAINAKD. 

Why cowers the clog, whose snuffing nose 
Wus nevei' once deceived till now? 

And why, amid the chilling snows, 
Does cither hunter wipe his brow? 

For once they see his I'earfid den, 
'Tis a dark cloud that slowly moves 

Ijy night around the homes of men, 
By day — along the stream it loves. 

Again the dog is on his track, 

The hunters chase o'er dale and hill, 

They may not, though they would, look hack, 
They must go forward — forward still. 

OuAvard they go, and never turn, 

Spending a night that meets no day ; 

For them shall never morning sun 
Light them upon their endless way. 

The hut is desolate, and there 
The famished dog alone i-eturns ; 

On the cold steps he makes his lair. 
By the shut door he lays his bones. 

NoAv the tired sportsman leans his gun 

Against the ruins of the site. 
And ponders on the hunting done 

By the lost Avanderers of the night. 

And there the little countiy girls 

Will stop to whisper, and listen, and look, 

And tell, while dressing their sunny curls, 
Of the Black Fox of Salmon Brook. 



28,^ 



EDWAED COATE PINKNEY. 



A HEALTH. 



1 FILL this cup to one made up of loveliness alone, 

A woman, of her gentle sex the seeming paragon ; 

To whom the better elements and kindly stars have given 

A form so fair, that, like the air, 'tis less of earth than heaven. 

Her every tone is music's own, like those of morning birds, 
And something more than melody dwells ever in her words ; 
The coinage of her heart are they, and from her lips each flows 
As one may see the bui'thened bee forth issue from the rose. 

Affections are as thoughts to her, the measures of her hours ; 
Her feelings have the fragrancy, the freshness of young flowers ; 
And lovely passions, changing oft, so fill her, she appears 
The image of themselves by turns, — the idol of past years. 

Of her bright face one glance Avill trace a picture on the brain. 
And of her voice in echoing hearts a sound must long remain ; 
Hut memory such as mine of her so very much endears, 
When death is nigh my latest sigh will not be life's but hers. 

I filled this cup to one made up of loveliness alone, 
A woman, of her gentle sex the seeming paragon — 
Her health ! and would on earth there stood some more of such 

a frame, 
Tliat life might be all poetry, and weariness a name. 

2SG 



EDWAKD COATE PINKNEY. 



A PICTURE-SONG. 



Mow may this little tablet feign the features of a face, 
Which o'er-iiiforms with loveliness its proper share of space; 
Or human hands on ivory enable us to see 
The charms that all must wonder at, thou work of gods, in thee ! 

But yet, methinks, that sunny smile familiar stories tells. 
And I should know those placid eyes, two shaded crystal wells ; 
Nor can my soul, the limner's art attesting with a sigh, 
Forget the blood that decked thy cheek, as rosy clouds the sk}-. 

They could not semble what thou art, more excellent than fair. 
As soft as sleep or pity is, and pvu"e as mountain air ; 
But here are common, earthly hues, to such an aspect wrought. 
That none, save thine, can seem so like the beautiful of thought. 

The song I sing, thy likeness like, is painful mimicry 
Of something better, which is now a memory to me. 
Who have upon life's frozen sea arrived the icy spot, 
Where men's magnetic feelings show their guiding task forgot. 

The sportive hopes, that used to chase their shifting shadows on. 
Like children playing in the sun, are gone — for ever gone ; 
And on a careless, sullen peace, my double-fronted mind, 
Like Janus when his gates were shut, looks forward and behind. 

Apollo placed his harp, of old, awhile upon a stone, 

Which has resounded since, when struck, a breaking har])- 

string's tone ; 
And thus my heart, though wholly now from early softness free. 
If touched, will yield the music yet it first received of thee. 

287 








CLEMENT C. IHOORE. 



A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS. 



'Tavas the night before Christmas, when all through the house 
Not a creatui'e was stirring, not oven a mouse ; 



CLEMENT C. MOORE. 

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, 

In hopes that St. NichoUis soon would be there ; 

The children were nestled all snug in their beds, 

While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads ; 

And Mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap, 

Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap ; 

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, 

I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter. 

Away to the window I flew like a flash, 

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. 

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow. 

Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below, 

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear. 

But a miniature sleigh, and eiglit tiny rein-deer, 

With a little old driver, so lively and quick, 

I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. 

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came. 

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name ; 

"Now, Dasher! now. Dancer! now, Prancer ! and Vixen! 

On, Comet ! on, Cupid ! on, Donder and Blitzen ! 

To the top of the porch ! to the top of the wall ! 

Now dash away ! dash away ! dash away all !" 

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly. 

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky ; 

So up to the house-top the coursers they flew, 

With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too. 

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof, 

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof — 

As I drew in my head, and was turning around, 

Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. 

He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot. 

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot ; 

A bundle of toys he had flung on his back. 

And he looked like a jiodlar just opening his pack. 

His eyes — how they twinkled ! his dimples how merry ! 

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry! 

289 T 



A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS. 

His droll little mouth was dra-VATi up like a bow, 

And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow; 

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, 

And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath ; 

He had a broad fiice and a little round belly, 

That shook, Avhen he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly. 

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf. 

And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself; 

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head, 

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread ; 

He spoke not a word, but w^ent straight to his work, 

And filled all the stockings ; then turned with a jerk, 

And laying his finger aside of his nose, 

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose ; 

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, 

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle. 

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, 

" Happy Christmas to all, and to all a yood-night .'" 



290 




BAKTON. 



TO THE EVENING PRIMROSE. 



Fair flower, that shunn'st the glare of day, 
Yet lov'st to open, meekly bold, 

To evening's hues of silver grey 
Thy cup of paly gold ; — 



Be thine the offering, owing long 
To thee, and to this pensive hour, 

Of one brief tributary song, 
Though transient as thy flower. 
291 



TO THE EVENING PRIMROSE. 

I love to watch at silent eve 

Thy scatter'd blossoms' lonely light, 

And have my inmost heart receive 
The influence of that sight. 

I love at such an hour to mark 

Their beauty greet the night-breeze chill, 

And shine, 'mid shadows gathering dark. 
The garden's glory still. 

For such 'tis sweet to think the while, 
When cares and griefs the breast invade, 

Is friendship's animating smile 
In sorrow's dark'ning shade. 

Thus it bursts forth, like thy pale cup — 
Glist'ning amid its dewy tears, 

And bears the sinking spirit up 
Amid its chilling fears— 

But still more animating far, 

If meek Religion's eye may ti'ace 

Even in thy glimm'ring, earth-born star, 
The holier hope of Grace. 

The hope, that as thy beauteous bloom 
Expands to glad the close of day. 

So through the shadows of the tomb 
May break forth Mercy's ray. 



292 




SOTHEBY. 



KHINEFIELD,— A LODGE IN THE NEW FOREST. 



RiiiNEFiELD ! US through thy solitude I rove, 
Now lost amid the deep wood's gloomy night, 
Doubtful I trace a ray of glimmering light ; 

Now where some antique oak, itself a grove. 
Spreads its soft umbrage o'er the sunny glade, 

Stretched on its mossy roots at early dawn 

While o'er the furze with light bound leaps the fawn. 
I count the herd that crops the dewy blade : 

Frequent at eve list to the hum profound 
That all around upon the chill breeze floats, 
Broke by the lonely keeper's Avild, strange notes. 

At distance followed by the broAvsing deer; 

Or the bewilder' d stranger's plaintive sound 

That dies in lessening murmurs on the ear. 
293 ■ 



ON CROSSING THE ANGLESEY STRAIT. 

SKIRID, 

« 

A HILL NEAR ABERGAVENNY. 

Skirid ! remembrance thy loved scene renews ; 

Fancy, yet lingering on thy shaggy brow, 

Beholds around the lengthened landscape glow. 
Which charmed, when late the day-beam's parting hues 

Purpled the distant cliff. The crystal stream 
Of Usk bright winds the verdant meads among; 
The dark heights lower with wild Avoods o'erhung ; 

Pale on the grey tower falls the twilight gleam. 
And frequent I recal the sudden breeze, 

Which, as the sun shot up his last pale flame. 
Shook every liglit leaf shivering on the trees: 

Then, bathed in dew, meek evening silent came. 
While the low wind, that faint and fainter fell, 
Soft murmured to the dying day — Farewell ! 



ON CROSSING THE A;NGLESEY STRAIT TO BANGOR AT 
MIDNIGHT. 

'TwAS night, when from the Druid's gloomy cave, 
Where I had wander'd, tranced in thought, alone 
'Mid Cromlech's and the Carnedd's funeral stone, 

Pensive and slow I sought the Menai's Avave : 
Lulled by the scene, a soothing stillness laid 

Each pang to rest. O'er Snowdon's cloudless bro"\A' 

The moon, that full orb'd rose, with peaceful glow 
Beamed on the rocks ; with many a star arrayed, 

Glitter'd the broad blue sky ; from shore to shore 
O'er the smooth current streamed a silver light, 
Save where along the flood the lonely height 
Of rocky Penmaenmaur deep darkness spread ; 

And all was silence, save the ceaseless roar 
Of Conway bursting on the ocean's bed. 
■. 294 




BRYANT. 



SONG OF MARION'S MEN. 



Our band is few, but true and tried, 

Our leader frank and bold ; 
The British soldier trembles 

When Marion's name is told. 
Our fortress is the good greenwood, 

Our tent the cypress-tree; 
We know the forest round us, 

As seamen know the sea. 
295 



SONG OF MARION'S MEN. 

We know its walls of thorny vines, 

Its glades of reedy grass, 
Its safe and silent islands , 

Within the dark morass. 

Wo to the English soldiery, 

That little dread us near ! 
On them shall light at midnight 

A strange and sudden fear: 
W^hen, waking to their tents on fire, 

They grasp their arms in vain, 
And they who stand to ftice us 

Are beat to earth again. 
And they who fly in terror deem 

A mighty host behind, 
And hear the tramp of thousands 

Upon the hollow wind. 

Then sweet the hour that brings release 

From danger and from toil : 
We talk the battle over, 

And share the battle's spoil. 
The woodland rings with laugh and shout, 

As if a hunt were up, 
And woodland flowers are gathered 

To crown the soldier's cup. 
With merry songs we mock the wind 

That in the pine-top grieves. 
And slumber long and sweetly 

On beds of oaken leaves. 

Well knows the fair and friendly moon 
The band that Marion leads — 

The glitter of their rifles, 

The scampering of their steeds. 

'Tis life to guide the fiery barb 
Across the moonlight plain ; 
296 



BRYANT. 

'Tis life to feel the niglit-wind 
That lifts his tossing mane. 

A. moment in the British camp — 
A moment — and away 

I>ack to the pathless forest, 
Before the peep of day. 

Grave men there are by broad San tee, 

Grave men with hoary hairs, 
Their hearts are all with Marion, 

For Marion are their prayers. 
And lovely ladies greet onr band 

With kindliest Avelconiing, 
With smiles like those of summer. 

And tears like those of spring. 
For them Ave wear these trusty arms, 

And lay them down no more 
Till we have driven the Briton, 

For ever, from our shore. 



207 










GREEN RIVER. 

When breezes are soft and skies are fail", 
I steal an hour from study and care, 
And hie me away to the woodland scene, 
Where wanders the stream Avith waters of green, 
As if the bright fringe of herbs on its brink 
Had given their stain to the wave they drink ; 
And they, whose meadows it murmurs through, 
Have named the stream from its own fair hue. 



Yet pure its waters — its shallows are bright 
With colored pebbles and sparkles of light, 
And clear the depths where its eddies play. 
And dimples deepen and Avhirl away, 

298 



BRYANT. 

And the plane-tree's speckled arms o'er.-hoot 

The swifter current that mines its root, 

Through whose shifting leaves, as you walk the hiU, 

The quivering glimmer of sun and rill 

With a sudden flash on the eye is thro-mi, 

Like the ray that streams from the diamond-stone 

Oh, loveliest there the spring days come, 

With blossoms, and birds, and wild bees' hum ; 

The flowers of summer are fairest there, 

And freshest the breath of the summer air ; 

And sweetest the golden autumn day 

In silence and sunshine glides away. 

Yet, fair as thou art, thou shunnest to glide. 
Beautiful stream ! by the village side ; 
But windest away from haunts of men, 
To quiet valley and shaded glen ; 
And forest, and meadow, and slope of hill, 
Around thee, are lonely, lovely, and still. 
Lonely, save when, by thy rippling tides, 
From thicket to thicket the angler glides; 
Or the simpler comes with basket and book. 
For herbs of power on thy banks to look ; 
Or haply, some idle dreamer, like me. 
To wander, and muse, and gaze on thee. 
Still — save the chirp of birds that feed 
On the river cherry and seedy reed, 
And thy own wild music gushing out 
With mellow murmur and fairy shout. 
From daAvn to the blush of another day, 
Like traveller singing along his way. 

That fairy music I never hear. 
Nor gaze on those waters so green and clear, 
And mark them Avinding away from sight. 
Darkened with shade or flashing with light. 
299 



GEEEN RIVEE. 

While o'er them the vine to its thicket clings, 
And the zephyr stoops to freshen his wings, 
But I wish that fate had left me free 
To wander these quiet haunts with thee, 
Till the eating cares of earth should depart, 
And the peace of the scene pass into my heart ; 
And I envy thy stream as it glides along. 
Through its beautiful banks in a trance of song. 

Though forced to drudge for the dregs of men, 

And scrawl strange words with the barbarous pen, 

And mingle among the jostling crowd, 

Wliere the sons of strife are subtle and loud — 

I often come to this quiet place, 

To breathe the airs that ruffle thy face, 

And gaze upon thee in silent dream. 

For in thy lonely and lovely stream 

An image of that calm life appears 

That won my heart in my greener years. 



300 



BEYA]^T. 



THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, 

Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere. 

Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead ; 

They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. 

The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay, 

An^ from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day. 

Where are the flowers, the foir young flowers, that lately sprang and stood 
In brighter light, and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? 
Alas ! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers 
Are lying in their lowly beds, Avith the fair and good of ours. 
The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain 
Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. 

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago. 

And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow ; 

But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster i\\ the wood. 

And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn beauty stood. 

Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men. 

And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen. 

And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come. 

To call the squiri-el and the bee from out their winter home; 

When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, 

And twinkle in the smoky light the Avaters of the rill. 

The south Avind searches for the floA\'ers Avhose fragrance late he bore. 

And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. 

And then I think of one Avho in her youthful beauty died, 
Tlie fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side : 
In the cold moist earth Ave laid her, Avlicn the forests cast the leaf, 
And AA-e Avept that one so lovely should have a life so brief: 
Yet not unmeet it Avas that one, like that young friend of ours, 
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. 

301 



THE LAND OF DREAMS. 



THE LAND OP DREAMS. 



A MIGHTY realm is the Land of Dreams, 
With steeps that hang in the twilight sky, 

And weltering oceans and trailing streams, 
That gleam where the dusky valleys lie. 

But over its shadowy border flow 

Sweet rays from the world of endless morn, 

And the nearer mountains catch the glow, 
And flowers in the nearer fields are born. 

The souls of the happy dead repair. 

From their bowers of light, to that bordering land. 
And walk in the fainter glory there, 

"With the souls of the living hand in hand. 

One calm sweet smile, in that shadowy sphere. 
From eyes that open on earth no more — • 

One Avarning word from a voice once dear — 
How they rise in the memory o'er and o'er! 

Far off from those hills that shine with day, 
And fields that bloom in the heavenly gales. 

The Land of Dreams goes stretching away 
To dimmer mountains and darker vales. 

There lie the chambers of guilty delight, 
There walk the spectres of guilty fear. 

And soft low voices, that float through the night, 
Are whispering sin in the helpless ear. 
302 



BRYANT. 

Dear maid, in thy girlhood's opening flower, 
Scarce weaned from the love of childish play '. 

The tears on whose cheeks are but the shower 
That freshens the early blooms of May ! 

Tliine eyes are closed, and over thy brow 
Pass thoughtful shadows and joyous gleams, 

And I know, by thy moving lips, that now 
Thy spirit strays in the Land of Dreams. 

Light-hearted maiden, oh, heed thy feet ! 

O keep where that beam of Paradise falls, 
And only wander where thou may'st meet 

The blessed ones from its shining walls. 

So shalt thou come from the Land of Dreams, 
With love and peace to this world of strife ; 

And the light that over that border streams 
Shall lie on the path of thy daily life. 



303 




THE HUNTER OF THE PRAIRIES. 



Ay, this is freedom! — these pure skies 

Were never stained with village smoke : 
The fragrant Avind, that through them flies, 

Is breatlied from wastes by plough unbroko 
Here, with my rifle and my steed, 

And her who left the world for me, 
I plant me where the red deer feed 

In the green desert — and am free. 
304 



BRYANT. 

For here the fair savannas know 

No barriers in the bloomy grass ; 
Wherever breeze of heaven may blow, 

Or beam of heaven may glance, I pass. 
In pastures, measureless as air. 

The bison is my noble game ; 
The bounding elk, whose antlers tear 

The branches, falls before my aim. 

Mine are the river-fowl that scream 

From the long stripe of waving sedge; 
The bear that marks my weapon's gleam, 

Hides vainly in the forest's edge ; 
In ^ain the she-wolf stands at bay ; 

The brinded catamount, that lies 
High in the boughs to watch his prey, 

Even in the act of springing, dies. 

With what free growth the elm and plane 

Fling their huge arms across my way, 
Gray, old, and cumbered with a train 

Of vines, as huge, and old, and gray ! 
Free stray the lucid streams, and find 

No taint in these fresh lawns and shades ; 
Free spring the flowers that scent the wind 

Where never scythe has swept the glades. 

Alone the Fire, when frost-Avinds sere 

The heavy herbage of the ground, 
Gathers his annual harvest here, 

With roaring like the battle's sound. 
And hurrying flames that sweep the plain, 

And smoke-streams gushing up the sky : 
I meet the flames with flames again. 

And at my door they cower and die. 
305 



THE HUNTER OF THE PRAIRIES. 

Here, from dim woods, the aged past 

Speaks solemnly; and I behold 
The boundless future in the vast 

And lonely river, seaward rolled. 
Who feeds its founts with rain and dew; 

Who moves, I ask, its gliding mass. 
And trains the bordering vines, whose blue 

Bright clusters tempt me as I pass ? 

IJroad are these streams — my steed obeys, 

Plunges, and bears me through the tide. 
Wide are these woods — I thread the maze 

Of giant stems, nor ask a guide. 
I hunt till day's last glimmer dies 

O'er woody vale and grassy height ; 
And kind the voice and glad the eyes 

That welcome my return at night. 



306 




THE GLADNESS OF NATURE. 



Is this a time to be cloudy and sad, 

Wlien our mother Nature laughs around; 

When even the deep blue heavens look glad, 

And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground? 
307 



WILLIAM TELL. 

There are notes of joy from the hang-bird and wren, 
And the gossip of swallows through all the sky; 

The ground-squirrel gayly chirps by his den, 
And the wilding bee hums merrily by. 

The clouds are at play in the azure space, 

And their shadows at play on the bright green vale, 

And here they stretch to the frolic chase. 
And there they roll on the easy gale. 

There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower, 
There's a titter of winds in that beechen tree. 

There's a smile on the fruit and a smile on the floAver, 
And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea. 

And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles 
On the dewy earth that smiles in his ray, 

On tlie leaping waters and gay young isles; 
Ay, look, and he'll smile thy gloom away. 



WILLIAM TELL. 

Chains may subdue the feeble spirit, but thee, 
Tell, of the iron heart ! they could not tame ! 
For thou wert of the mountains; they proclaim 

The everlasting creed of liberty. 

That creed is written on the untrampled snow. 
Thundered by torrents which no power can hold, 
Save that of God, when he sends forth his cold. 

And breathed by winds that through the free heaven blow. 

Thou, while thy prison walls were dark around, 
Didst meditate the lesson Nature taught, 
And to thy brief captivity was brought 

A vision of thy Switzerland unbound. 

The bitter cup they mingled, strengthened tliee 
For the great work to set thy country free. 
308 



BRYANT. 



AN INVITATION TO THE COUNTRY. 

All day, from shrubs by our summer dwelling, 
The Easter-sparrow repeats his song, 

A merry warbler, he eludes the blossoms, 
The idle blossoms, that sleep so long. 

The blue-bird chants, from the elm's long branches, 
A hymji to welcome the budding year; 

The south-wind wanders from field to forest, 
And softly whispers, The spring is here! 

Come, daughter mine, from the gloomy city, 
Before these lays from the elm have ceased ; 

The A'iolet breathes by our door as sweetly 
As in the air of her native East. 

Though many a flower in the wood is waking. 

The daffodil is our door-side queen ; 
She pushes upward the sward already. 

To spot with sunshine the early green. 

No lays so joyous as these are warbled 
From Aviry prison in maiden's bower; 

No pampered bloom of the green-house chamber 
Has half the charm of the laAvn's first flower. 

Yet these sweet lays of the early season 
And these fan* sights of its sunny days. 

Are only sweet when we fondly listen. 
And only fair when we fondly gaze. 
309 



AN INVITATION TO THE COUNTRY. 

There is no glory in star or blossom 
Till looked upon by a loving eye ; 

There is no fragrance in April breezes 
Till breathed with joy as they wander by. 

Come, Julia dear, for the sprouting Avillows, 
The opening flowers, and the gleaming brooks, 

And hollows green in the sun are Avaiting 
Their dower of beauty from thy glad looks. 



310 







DRAKE. 



BRONX. 



1 SAT me down upon a green bank-side, 
Skirting the smooth edge of a gentle river, 

Whose waters seemed unwillingly to glide, 

Like parting friends wjio linger while they sever; 

Enforced to go, yet seeming still unready. 

Backward they wind their way in many a wistful eddy. 

811 



BRONX. 

Gray o'er my head the yellow-vested willow 
Ruffled its hoary top in the fresh breezes, 

Glancing in light, like spray on a green billow, 
Or the fine frostwork which young winter freezes, 

\Vlien first his power in infant pastime trying, 

(Congeals sad autumn's tears on the dead branches lying. 



From rocks around hung the loose ivy dangling. 

And in the clefts sumach of liveliest green, 
Bright ising-stars the little beach was spangling, 

. The gold-cup sorrel from his gauzy screen 
Shone like a fairy crown, enchased and beaded, 
Left on some morn, when light flashed in their eyes unheeded 



The humbird shook his sun-touched wings around, 
The bluefinch caroll'd in the still retreat ; 

The antic squirrel capered on the ground 
Where lichens made a carpet for his feet : 

Through the transparent waves, the ruddy minklc 

Shot up in glimmei'ing sparks his red fin's tiny twinkle. 



There were dark cedars with loose mossy tresses. 
White powdered dog-trees, and stiff hollies flaunting 

(iaudy as rustics in their May-day dresses. 
Blue pelloret from purple leaves npslanting 

A modest gaze, like eyes of a young maiden 

Shining beneath dropt lids the evening of her wedding. 



The breeze fresh springing from the lips of morn, 
Kissing the leaves, and sighing so to lose 'em, 

The winding of the merry locust's horn. 

The glad spring gushing from the rock's bare bosom: 

Sweet sights, sweet sounds, all sights, all sounds excelling. 

Oh ! 'twas a ravishing spot formed for a poet's dwelling. 

312 



DRAKE. 

And did I leave thy loveliness, to stand 

Again in the dull world of earthly blindness '? 

Pained with the pressure of unfriendly hands, 
Sick of smooth looks, agued with icy kindness? 

Left I for this thy shades, where none intrude. 

To prison wandering thought and mar sweet solitude? 



Yet I will look upon thy face again, 
My own romantic Bronx, and it will be 

A face more pleasant than the face of men. 
Thy waves are old companions, I shall see 

A well-remembered form in each old tree. 

And hear a voice long loved in thy wild minstrelsy. 



SONNET 



Is thy heart weary of unfeeling men, 

And chilled with the world's ice? Then come with mo. 

And I will bring thee to a pleasant glen 

Lovely and lonely. There we'll sit, unvicwed 

By scotHng eye ; and let our hearts beat free 

With their own mutual throb. For wild and rude 

Tlie access is, and none will there intrude, 

To poison our free thoughts, and mar our solitude ! 

Such scenes move not their feelings — for they hold 
No fellowship with nature's loneliness ; 
The frozen wave reflects not back the gold 

And crimson flushes of the sun-set hour ; 

The rock lies cold in sunshine — not the power 
Of heaven's bright orb can clothe its bari'enness. 

313 




HALLECK. 



RED JACKET. 

A CHIEF OF THE INDIAX TRIBES, THE TUSCAEORAS. 

ON LOOKING AT HIS POKTKAIT BY WEIR. 

Cooper, whose name is with his country's woven, 
Urst in her files, her Pioneer of mind — 

A wanderer now in other climes, has proven 
His love for the young land he left behind; 
3H 



HALLECK. 

And throned her in the senate-hall of nations, 
Robed like the deluge rainbow, heaven-wrought ; 

Magnificent as his own mind's creations, 

And beautiful as its green world of thought: 

And faithful to the Act of Congress, quoted 
As law authority, it passed nem. con. : 

He writes that we are, as ourselves have voted, 
The most enlightened people ever known. 

That all our week is happy as a Sunday 
In Paris, full of song, and dance, and laugh ; 

And that, from Orleans to the Bay of Fundy, 
There's not a bailiff or an epitaph. 

And furthermore — in fifty years, or sooner, 
We shall export our poetry and wine ; 

And our brave fleet, eight frigates and a schooner, 
Will sweep the seas from Zembla to the I.ine. 

If he were with me. King of Tuscarora ! 

Gazing, as I, upon thy portrait now, 
In all its medalled, fringed, and beaded glory, 

Its eye's dark beauty, and its thoughtful brow — 

Its brow, half martial and half diplomatic. 
Its eye, upsoaring like an eagle's wings; 

Well might he boast that we, the Democratic, 
Outrival Europe, even in our Kings ! 

For thou wast monarch born. Tradition's pages 
Tell not the planting of thy parent tree. 

But that the forest tribes have bent for ages 
To thee, and to thy sires, the subject knee. 

Thy name is princely — if no poet's magic 

Could make Red Jacket grace an English rhyme, 

Though some one with a genius for the tragic 
TTath introduced it in a pantomime, 
315 



RED JACKET. 

Yet it is music in the language spoken 

Of thine own land ; and on her herald roll ; 

As bravely fought fox', and as proud a token 
As Coeur de Lion's of a warrior's soul. 

Thy garb — though Austria's bosom-star would frighten 
That medal pale, as diamonds the dark mine, 

And George the Fourth wore, at his court at Brighton. 
A more becoming evening dress than thine ; 

Yet 'tis a brave one, scorning wind and weather, 
And fitted for thy couch, on field and flood, 

As Kob Roy's tartan for the Highland heather, 
Or forest green for England's Robin Hood. 

Is strength a monarch's merit, like a Avhaler's? 

Thou art as tall, as sinewy, and as strong 
As earth's first kings — the Argo's gallant saUors, 

Heroes in history, and gods in song. 

Is beauty ? — Thine has with thy youth departed ; 

But the love-legends of thy manhood's years, - 
And she who perished, young and broken-hearted, 

Are — but I rhyme for smiles and not for tears. 

Is eloquence? — Her spell is thine that reaches 
The heart, and makes the wisest head its sport; 

And there's one rare, strange virtue in thy speeches, 
The secret of their mastery — they are short. 

The monarch mind, the mystery of commanding. 
The birth-hour gift, the art Napoleon, 

Of winning, fettering, moulding, wielding, banding 
The hearts of millions till they move as one : 

Thou hast it. At thy bidding men have crowded 

The road to death as to a festival; 
And minstrels, at their sepulchres, have shrouded 

With banner-folds of glory the dark pall. 
316 



HALLECK. 

Who will believe ? Not I — for in deceiving 
Lies the dear charm of life's delightful dream ; 

I cannot spare the luxury of believing 

That all things beautiful are what they seem ; 

Who will believe that, with a smile whose blessing 
Would, like the Patriarch's, soothe a dying hour. 

With A'oice as low, as gentle, and caressing. 
As e'er won maiden's lip in moonlit boAver ; 

^Vith look, like patient Job's, eschewing evil ; 

With motions graceful as a bird's in air ; 
Thou art, in sober truth, the veriest devil 

That e'er clenched fingers in a captive's hair ! 

That in thy breast there springs a poison fountain, 
Deadlier than that where bathes the Upas-tree ; 

And In thy wrath, a nursmg cat-o'-mountain 
Is calm as her babe's sleep compared with thco ! 

And underneath that face, like summer ocean's, 
Its lip as moveless, and its cheek as clear, 

Slumbers a whirlwind of the heart's emotions. 
Love, hatred, pride, hope, sorrow — all save fear. 

LoAc — for thy land, as if she were thy daughter. 

Her pipe in peace, her tomahawk in wars; 
Hatred — of missionaries and cold water ; 

Pride — in thy rifle-trophies and thy scars ; 

Rope — that thy wrongs may be, by the Great Spirit, 
Remembered and revenged when thou art gone ; 

SorroAA' — that none are left thee to inherit 

Thy name, thy fjime, thy passions, and thy throne ! 



317 




'((i^^lf-'—y^rJ-^ -jttfWWwsP'iswnwr 



CONNECTICUT. 



(FROM AN rXPUBLISIIED POEM.) 



still her gray rocks tower above the sea 

That crouches at their feet, a conquered wave ; 

'Tis a rough land of earth, and stone, and tree, 
Where breathes no castled lord or cabined slave ; 

Where thoughts, and tongues, and hands are bold and free, 
And friends will find a welcome, foes a grave ; 

And where none kneel, save when to heaven they pray, 

Nor even then, unless in their own way. 

318 



HALLECK. 

Theirs is a pure republic, wild, yet strong, 
A "fierce ckmocracie," where all are true 

To what themselves have voted — right or wrong — 
And to their laws denominated blue ; 

(If red, they might to Draco's code belong ;) 
A vestal state, which power could not subdue, 

Nor promise win — like her own eagle's nest. 

Sacred — the San Marino of the West. 

A justice of the peace, for the time being, 

They bow to, but may turn him out next year; 

They reverence their priest, but disagreeing 
In price or creed, dismiss him without fear ; 

They have a natural talent for foreseeing 

And knowing all things ; and shovdd Park appear 

From his long tour in Africa, to show 

The Niger's source, they'd meet him with — "We know." 

They love then- land, because it is their own. 
And scorn to give aught other reason why ; 

Would hihake hands with a king upon his throne. 
And think it kindness to his majesty ; 

A stubborn race, fearing and flattering none. 

Such are they nurtured, such they live and die : 

All — but a few apostates, who arc meddling 

With merchandise, pounds, shillings, pence, and peddling ; 

Or wandering through the southern countries, teaching 
The ABC from Webster's spelling-book ; 

Gallant and godly, making love and preaching, 

And gaining by what they call "hook and crook," 

And what the moralists call overreaching, 
A decent living. The Virginians look 

Upon them with as favourable eyes 

As Gabriel on the devil in Paradise. 

319 



CONNECTICUT. 

But these are but their outcasts. View them near 
At home, where all their worth and pride is placed 

And there their hospitable fires burn clear, 

And there the lowliest farmhouse hearth is graced 

With manly hearts, in piety sincere. 

Faithful in love, in honour stern and chaste, 

In friendship warm and true, in danger brave, 

Beloved in life, and sainted in the grave. 

And minds have there been nurtured, whose control 

Is felt even in their nation's destiny; 
Men who swayed senates with a statesman's soul,"^ 

And looked on armies with a leader's eye ; 
Names that adorn and dignify the scroll, 

Whose leaves contain their country's history, 
And tales of love and war — listen to one 
Of the Green-Mountaineer — the Stark of Bennincton. 



When on that field his band the Hessians fought. 
Briefly he spoke before the fight began: 

" Soldiers ! those German gentlemen are bought 
For four pounds eight and sevenpence per man. 

By England's king; a bargain, as is thought. 
Are Ave worth more ? Let's prove it now we can ; 

For Ave must beat them, boys, ere set of sun, 

Or Mary Stark's a widoav!" It Avas done. 



Hers are not Tempe's nor Arcadia's spring. 
Nor the long summer of Cathayan vales, 

The vines, the floAvers, the air, the skies, that fling 
Such wild enchantment o'er Boccaccio's tales 

Of Florence and the Arno ; yet the wing 
Of life's best angel. Health, is on her gales 

Thi'ough sun and snow ; and in the autumn tiuK- 

Earth has no purer and no lovelier clime. 

320 



HALLECK. 

Her clear, warm heaven at noon — the mist that shrouds 
Her twilight hills — her cool and starry eves, 

The glorious sjilendour of her sunset clouds, 
The rainbow beauty of her forest leaves, 

Come o'er the eye, in solitude and crowds. 
Where'er his web of song her poet Aveaves ; 

And his mind's brightest vision but displays 

'Ilie autumn scenery of his boyhood's days. 

And when }ou dream of woman, and her love ; 

Her truth, her tendei^ness, her gentle power; 
The maiden listening in the moonlight grove, 

The mother smiling in her infant's bower; 
Forms, features, worshipped while we breathe or move, 

Be by some spirit of your dreaming hour 
Borne, like Loretto's chapel, through the air 
To the green land I sing, then wake, you'll find them there. 



ox THE DEATH OF 

JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE, 

OF NEAV YORK, SEPT., 1820. 

"The good die first, 
And they, whose hearts are dry as summer dust. 
Burn to the socket." — ^Wordsworth. 

Green be the turf above thee, 

Friend of my better days ! 
None knew thee but to love thee, 

Nor named thee but to praise. 

Tears fell, when thou wert dying, 
From eyes unused to weep, 

And long where thou art lying, 
Will tears the cold turf steep. 
321 



ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 

When hearts, whose truth Avas proven. 
Like thine, are laid in earth. 

There should a wreath be woven 
To tell the world their worth ; 

And I, who woke each morrow 

To clasp thy hand in mine. 
Who shared thy joy and sorrow, 

Whose weal and woe were thine : 

It should be mine to braid it 

Around thy faded brow, 
But I've in vam essayed it. 

And feel I cannot now. 

While memory bids me weep thee, 
Nor tlionghts nor words are free. 

The grief is fixed too deeply 
That mourns a man like thee. 



322 



HORACE SMITH. 

THE FIRST OF MARCH. 

The bud is in the bough, and the leaf is in the bud, 
And Earth's beginning now in her veins to feel the blood, 
Which warni'd by summer suns in th' alembic of the vine. 
From her founts will over-run in a ruddy gush of wine. 

The perfume and the bloom that shall decorate the flower. 
Are quickening in the gloom of their subterranean bower ; 
And the juices meant to feed trees, vegetables, fruits, 
Unerringly proceed to their pre-appointed roots. 

How awful is the thought of the wonders undergi'ound, 

(3f the mystic changes wrought in the silent, dark profound ; 

How each thing upward tends by necessity decreed, 

And a world's support depends on the shooting of a seed ! 

The summer's in her ark, and this sunny-pinion'd day 

Is commission'd to remark whether AVinter holds her sway : 

Go back, thou dove of peace, with the myrtle on thy wing, 

Say that floods and tempests cease, and the Avorld is ripe foi- Spring. 

Thou hast fann'd the sleeping Earth till her dreams are all of flower; 
And the waters look in mirth for their overhanging bowei-s ; 
The forest seems to listen for the rustle of its leaves, 
And the very skies to glisten in the hope of summer eves. 

Thy vivifying spell has been felt beneath the Avave, 
By the dormouse in its cell, and the mole within its cave; 
And the summer tribes that creep, or in air expand their wing. 
Have started from their sleep at the summons of the Spring. 

32ii 



HARVEST HOME. 



The cattle lift their voices from the valleys and the hills, 
And the feather'd race rejoices with a gush of tuneful bills ; 
And if this cloudless arch fills the poet's song with glee, 
(J thou sunny first of March, be it dedicate to thee. 



DARLEY. 



HARVEST HOME. 



Down the dimpled green-sward dancing 
Bursts a flaxen-headed bevy, 

r>ud-lipt boys and girls advancing, 
Love's irregular little levy. 

Rows of liquid eyes in laughter, 

How tiiey glimmer, how they quiver! 

Sparkling one another after, 
Like bright ripples on a river. 

Tipsy band of rubious faces, 

Flushed with joy's ethereal spirit, 

Make your mocks and sly grimaces 
At Love's self, and do not fear it. 
324 



PRAED. 



CHILDHOOD AND HIS VISITORS. 



Once on a time, when sunny May 

Was kissing up the April showers, 
I saw fair Childhood hard at play 

Upon a bank of blushing flowers ; 
Happy, — he knew not whence or how ; 

And smiling, — who could choose but love him? 
For not more glad than Childhood's brow. 

Was the blue heaven that beamed above him. 

Old Time, in most appalling wrath, 

That valley's green repose invaded; 
Tlie brooks grew dry upon his path. 

The birds were mute, the lilies faded ; 
But Time so swiftly winged his flight, 

In haste a Grecian tomb to batter. 
That Childhood watched his ]iaper kite. 

And knew just nothing of the mattoi-. 

With curling lip, and glancing eye. 

Guilt gazed upon the scene a minute. 
But Childhood's glance of purity 
'Had such a holy spell within it, 
That the dark demon to the air 

Spread forth again his baffled pinion. 
And hid his envy and despair. 

Self-tortured, in his own dominion. 
325 



CHILDHOOD AND HIS VISITORS. 

Then stepped a gloomy jDhantom up, 

Fale, cypress-crowned, Night's awful daughter 
And proffered him a fearful cup. 

Full to the brim of bitter water : 
Poor Childhood bade her tell her name, 

And when the beldame muttered "Sorrow."' 
He said, — " Don't interrupt my game ; 

I'll taste it, if I must, to-morrow." 

The Muse of Pindus thither came. 

And wooed him with the softest numbei-^ 
That ever scattered wealth and fame 

Upon a youthful poet's slumbers ; 
Though sweet the music of the lay, 

To Childhood it was all a riddle, 
And " Oh," he cried, " do send away 

That noisy woman with the fiddle." 

Til en Wisdom stole his bat and ball, 

And taught him with most sage endeavour. 
Why bubbles rise, and acorns fall, 

And why no toy may last for ever : 
She talked of all the wondrous laws 

Which Nature's open book discloses, 
And Childhood, ere she made a pause, 

Was fast asleep among the roses. 

Sleep on, sleep on ! — Oh ! Manhood's dreams 

Are all of earthly pain, or pleasure, 
Of Glory's toils, Ambition's schemes. 

Of cherished love, or hoarded treasure : 
But to the couch where Childhood lies 

A more delicious trance is given. 
Lit up by rays from Seraph-eyes, 

And glimpses of remembered heaven ! 



326 




THE VICAR. 



Some years ago, ere Time and Taste 

Had tiirii'd our Parisli topsy-turvy, 
AMicn Darnel Park was Darnel Waste, 

And roads as little kno^Mi as seurvy. 
The man, Avho lost his way between 

St. Mary s Hill and Sandy Thicket, 
Was always shown across the Green, 

And guided to the Parson's wicket. 
.327 



r 



THE VICAK. 

Back Hew the bolt of lissom lath ; 

Fair Margaret, in her tidy kirtle, 
Led the lorn traveller up the path, 

Through clean-clipt rows of box and myrtle ; 
And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray, 

Upon the parlour steps collected. 
Wagged all their tails, and seemed to say, 

"Our master knows you; you 're expected." 

Up rose the Reverend Doctor Brown, 

Up rose the Doctor's " winsome marrow ;" 
The lady laid her knitting down, 

Her husband clasped his ponderous Barrow : 
Whate'er the stranger's caste or creed, 

Pundit or Papist, saint or sinner, 
lie found a stable for his steed. 

And welcome for himself, and dinner. 

If, when he reached his journey's end, 

And warmed himself in court or college, 
He had not gained an honest friend, 

And twenty curious scraps of knowledge ;-^ 
If he departed as he came. 

With no new light on love or liquor, — 
Crood sooth, the traveller was to blame, 

And not the Vicarage, or the Vicar. 



His talk was like a .stream which runs 

AVith rapid change from rocks to roses ; 
It slipped from politics to puns; 

It passed from Mahomet to Moses ; 
Beginning with the laws which keep 

The planets in their radiant courses, 
And ending with some precept deep 

For dressing eels., or shoeing horses. . 
328 J 



PRAED. 

He was a shrewd and sound divine, 

Of loud Dissent the mortal terror ; 
And when, by dint of page and line, 

lie 'stablished Truth, or started Erroi", 
The Baptist found him far too deep ; 

The Deist sighed with saving sorrow ; • 
And the lean Levite went to sleep. 

And dreamed of tasting pork to-morrow. 

His sermon never said nor show'd 

That Earth is foul, tiiat Heaven is gracious, 
Without refreshment on the road 

From Jerome, or from Athanasius ; 
And sure a righteous zeal inspired 

The hand and heart that penn'd and plann'd them. 
For all who understood admired, 

And some who did not understand them. 



And he Avas kind, and loved to sit 

In the low hut, or garnished cottage. 
And praise the farmer's homely wit. 

And share the widow's homelier pottage ; 
At his approach complaint grew mild. 

And Avhen his hand unbarred the shutter, 
The clammy lips of Fever smiled 

The welcome, which they could not uttei'. 

He always had a tale for me 

Of Julius Caesar, or of Venus : 
From him I learned the Rule of Three, 

Cat's-cradle, leap-frog, and Qutc genus ; 
I used to singe his powder'd wig, 

To steal the staff he put such trust in : 
And make the pnppy dance a jig, 

When he began to quote Augustin. 
32!) 



A CHARADE. 

Alack the change ! in vain I look 

For haunts in which my boyhood trifled,- 
The level lawn, the trickling brook, 

The trees I climbed, the beds I rifled : 
The church is larger than before ; 

You reach it by a carriage entry ; 
It holds three hundred people more ; 

And pews are fitted up for gentry. 

Sit in the Vicar's seat : you '11 hear 

The doctrine of a gentle Johnian, 
Whose hand is white, whose tone is clear, 

Whose style is very Ciceronian. 
Where is the old man laid ? Look down, 

And construe on the slab before you, 
"• Hie jacet Gulieoius Brown, 

Yir nulla non donandus lauro." 



A CHARADE. 

(THE WORD IS "CAMPBELL," THE POET.) 

Come from my First, ay, come ! 

The battle-dawn is nigh ; 
And the screaming trump and the thund'ring drum 

Are calling thee to die ! 
Fight as thy fathers fought, 

Fall as thy fathers fell! 
'I'hy task is taught, thy shroud is wrought; — 

So — ^forward ! and farewell ' 
330 



PKAED. 

I'oll ye, my Second ! toll ! 

Fling high the flambeaux' light ; 
And sing the liynni for a parted sonl, 

Beneath the silent night ! 
The wreath upon his head, 

The cross upon his breast, 
Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed : 

So — take him to his rest ! 

Call ye, my Whole, ay, call ! 

The lord of lute and lay ; 
And let him greet the sable pall 

"With a noble song to-day; 
Go, call him by his name ; 

No fitter hand may crave 
To light the flame of a soldier's fame, 

(Jn the turf of a soldier's grave. 



331 



HOOD. 



THE ELM TREE.— A DREAM IN THE WOODS. 



" And this our life, exempt from public haunt. 
Finds toDgties in trees!" — As you Like it. 



Part I. 

'TwAS in a shady Avenue, 
Where lofty Ehns abound — 
And from a Tree 
There came to me 
A sad and solemn sound. 
That sometunes murmur'd overhead. 
And sometimes underground. 

Amongst the leaves it seemed to sigh. 

Amid the boughs to moan ; 
It mutter'd in the stem, and then 

The roots took up the tone ; 
As if beneath the dewy grass 

The dead began to groan. 

No breeze there was to stir the leaves; 

No bolts that tempests launch, 
To rend the trunk or rugged bark ; 

No gale to bend the branch ; 
No quake of earth to heave the roots. 

That stood so stiif and staunch. 
.".32 



\m'--^i:£' 



TrSiesi., ^ ^•v -»i N asS^ 




Bill still the sound was in my oar, 

A sad and solemn sound, 
That sometimes murmur'd overhead, 
333 



THE ELM TREE. 

And sometimes underground — 
"Twas in a shady Avenue, 
Where lofty Elms abound. 

From poplar, pine, and drooping birch, 
And fragrant linden trees ; 
No living sound 
E'er hovers round, 
Unless the vagrant breeze, 
Tlie music of the merry bird, 
Or hum of busy bees. 

But busy bees forsake the Elm 
That bears no bloom aloft — 

The finch was in the hawthorn-bush, 
The blackbird in the croft ; 

And among the firs the brooding dove, 
That else might murmur soft. 

Yet still I heard that solemn sound. 

And sad it was to boot, 
From ev'ry overhanging bough, 

And each minuter shoot ; 
From rugged trunk and mossy rind, 

And from the twisted root. 

From these, — a melancholy moan ; 

From those, — a di-eary sigh ; 
As if the boughs were wintry bare, 

And wild winds sweeping b}^, — 
Whereas the smallest fleecy cloud 

Was steadfast in the sky. 

No sign or touch of stirring air 

Could either sense observe — 
The zephyr had not breath euougli 
331 



HOOD. 

The thistle-down to swerve, 
Or force the iihny gossamers 
To take another curve. 

In still and silent slumber husird 

All Nature seemed to be : 
From heaven above, or earth beneath, 

No whisper came to me — 
Except the solemn sound and sad 

From that Mysterious Tree! 

A hollow, hollow, hollow sound, 

As is that dreamy roar 
When distant billows boil and bound 

Along a shingly shoi'e — 
But the ocean brim was far aloof, 

A hundred miles or more. 

No murmur of the gvisty sea. 

No tumult of the beach, 
However they may foam and fret. 

The bounded sense could reach — 
Methought the trees in mystic tongue 

Were talking each to each ! — 

Mayhap, rehearsing ancient tales 
Of greenwood love or guilt, 
Of whisper'd vows 
lieneath their boughs ; 
Or blood obscurely spilt ; 
Or of that near-hand Mansion House 
A royal Tudor built. 

With wary eyes, and ears alert, 

As one who walks afraid, 
I wander'd down the dappled ]iath 



THE ELM TREE. 

Of mingled light and shade — 
How sweetly gleam'd that arch of blue 
Beyond the green arcade ! 

How cheerly shone the glimpse of Hcav'n 

Beyond that verdant aisle ! 
All overarch'd with lofty elms, 

That quench'd the light, the while, 
As dim and chill 
As serves to fill 
Some old Cathedral pile! 

And many a gnarled trunk was there, 

That ages long had stood. 
Till Time had wrought them into shapes 

Like Pan's fantastic brood ; 
Or still more foul and hideous forms 

That Pagans carve in wood ! 

A ci'ouching Satyr lurking here, 

And there a Goblin grim — 
As staring full of demon life 

As Gothic sculptor's Avhim ; 
A marvel it had scarcely been 

To hear a voice from him ! 

Some whisper from that horrid mouth. 

Of strange, unearthly tone ; 
Or wild infernal laugh, to chill 

One's marrow in the bone. 
But no — it grins like rigid Death, 

And silent as a stone ! 

As .silent as its fellows be, 

For all is mute with them, — 
The branch that climbs the leafy roof — 
336 



HOOD. 

The rough and mossy stem — 

The crooked root — 

And tender shoot 
Where hangs the dewy gem. 

One mystic Tree alone there is, 
Of sad and solemn sound — 

That sometimes murmurs overhead, 
And sometimes underground — 

In all that shady Avenue, 
Where lofty Elms abound. 



Part II. 

The Scene is changed ! No green Arcade, 

No trees all ranged a-row — 
Ijut scatter'd like a beaten host, 

Dispersing to and fro; 
^Vith here and there a sylvan corse. 

That fell before the foe. 

The Foe that down in yonder dell 

Pursues his daily toil; 
As witness many a prostrate trunk. 

Bereft of leafy spoil, 
Hard by its wooden stump, whereon 

The adder loves to coil. 

Alone he works — his ringing blows 
Have banish'd bird and beast; 

The hind and fawn have canter'd otF 
A hundred yards at least ; 

And on the maple's lofty top. 
The linnet's song has ceased. 
337 



THE ELM TREE. 

No e^'e his labour overlooks. 

Or when he takes his rest ; 
Except the timid thrush that peeps 

Above her secret nest, 
Forbid by love to leave the young 

Beneath her speckled breast. 

The Woodman's heart is in his work, 

His axe is sharp and good : 
With sturdy arm and steady aim 
He smites the gaping Avood ; 
From distant rocks 
His lusty knocks 
Re-echo many a rood. 

Aloft, upon his poising steel 

The vivid sunbeams glance — 
About his head and round his feet 

The forest shadows dance ; 
And bounding from his russet coat 

The acorn drops askance. 

His face is like a Druid's face, 

With wrinkles furrow'd deep. 
And, tann'd by scorching suns, as brown 

As corn that's ripe to reap ; 
But the hair on brow, and clieek, and chin, 

Is Avhite as wool of sheep. 

His frame is like a giant's frame ; 

His legs are long and stark ; 
His arms like limbs of knotted yew; 
His hands like rugged bark ; 
So he felleth still 
With right good will, 
As if to build an ark ! 
338 







Oh ! well to him the tree might breatho 

A sad and solemn sound, 
A sigh that murmur'd overhead, 

And groans from underground ; 
As in that shady Avenue, 

Where loftv Elms abound ! 



But calm and mute the maple stands, 
The plane, the ash, the llr, 



THE ELM TKEE. 

The elm, the beech, the drooping bu'ch. 

Without the least demur ; 
And e'en the aspen's hoary leaf 

Makes no unusual stir. 

The pines — those old gigantic pines, 

That wi'ithe — recalling soon 
Tiie famous human group that writhes 

With snakes in wild festoon — 
In ramous wrestlings interlaced, 

A Forest Liiocoon — 

Like Titans of primeval girth 

By tortures overcome, 
Their brown enormous limbs they twine, 

Bedew'd with tears of gum — 
Fierce agonies that ought to yell. 

But, like the marble, dumb. 

Nay, yonder blasted Elm that stands 

So like a man of sin, 
AVho, frantic, flings his arms abroad 

To feel the worm within — 
For all that gesture, so intense, 

It makes no sort of din ! 

An universal silence reigns 

In rugged bark or peel. 
Except that very trunk which rings 

Beneath the biting steel — 
IMeanwliile, the Woodman plies his axe 

With unrelenting zeal ! 

No rustic song is on his tongue, 

No whistle on his lips ; 
But with a quiet thoughtfulness 
340 



HOOD. 

His trusty tool lie grips, 
And, stroke on stroke, keeps hacking out 
The bright and flying chips. 

Stroke after stroke, with frequent dint 

He spreads the fatal gash; 
Till, lo ! the remnant fibres rend, 

With harsh and sudden crash, 
And on the dull resounding turf 

The jarrhig branches lash ! 

Oh ! now the Forest Trees may sigh, — 

The ash, the poplar tall. 
The elm, the birch, the drooping beech, 
The aspens — one and all, 
"With solemn groan 
And hollow moan. 
Lament a comrade's fall! 

A goodly Elm, of noble girth. 
That thrice the human span — 

^Vhile on their variegated course 
The constant Seasons ran, 

Hirough gale, and hail, and fiery bolt — 
Had stood erect as Man. 

lUit now, like mortal Man himself. 
Struck down by hand of God, 

Or heathen idol tumbled prone 
Beneath th' Eternal's nod. 

In all its giant bulk and length 
It lies along the sod ! — 

The echo sleeps : the idle axe, 

A disregarded tool, • 
Lies crushing with its passive weigh) 
341 



THE ELM TREE. 

The toad's reputed stool ; 
The Woodman wipes his dewy broAv 
Within the shadows cool. 

No zephyr stirs : the ear may catch 

The smallest insect-hum ; 
But on the disappointed sense 

No mystic whispers come; 
No tone of sylvan sympathy— 

The Forest Trees are dumb. 

No leafy noise, nor inward voice, 
No sad and solemn sound, 

That sometimes murmurs overhead, 
And sometimes underground — 

As in that shady Avenue, 
Where lofty Elms abound ! 



Part J II. 



The deed is done : the Tree is low 

That stood so long and firm ; 
The Woodman and his axe are gone. 

His toil has found its term ; 
And where he wrought the speckled (hnl^h 

Securely hunts the worm. 

The cony from the sandy bank 

Has run a rapid race, 
Tlirough thistle, bent, and tangled fern. 

To seek the open space ; 
And on its haunches sits erect 

To clean its furry face. 
.•U2 



HOOD. 

Plie dappled fawn is close at hand. 

The hind is browsing' near, — 
And on the larch's lowest bough 
The ousel whistles clear ; 
But checks the note 
Within its throat, 
As choked with sudden fear! 

With sudden fear her wormy quest 

The thrush abruptly quits ; 
Through thistle, bent, and tangled fern 

The startled cony flits ; 
And on the larch's lowest bough 

No more the ousel sits. 
With sudden fear, 
The dappled deer 

Effect a swift escape ; 
But well might bolder creatures start 

And fly, or stand agape. 
With rising hair, and curdled blood. 

To see so grim a Shape ! 

The very sky turns pale above, 
Tlie earth grows dark beneath ; 

The human Terror thrills with cold. 
And draws a shorter breath — 

An universal panic owns 

The dread approach of Death ! 

With silent pace, as shadows come. 

And dark as shadows be, 
The grisly Phantom takes his stand 

Beside the fallen Tree, 
And scans it with his gloomy eyes. 

And laughs with horrid glee — 

343 



THE ELM TREE. 

A dreary laugh and desolate, 
Where mirth is void and null, 

As hollow as its echo sounds 
Witliin the hollow skull : 

" Whoever laid this Tree along, 
His hatchet was not dull! 

The human arm and human tool 

Have done their duty well ! 
But after sound of ringing axe 
Must sound the ringing knell ; 
When elm or oak 
Have felt the stroke, 
My turn it is to fell ! 

No passive unregarded tree, 

A senseless thing of wood, 
AVherein the sluggish sap ascends 

To swell the vernal bud — 
But conscious, moving, breathing trunks 

That throb with living blood ! 

Ah ! little recks the Eoyal mind. 

Within his Banquet-Hall, 
While tapers shine, and music breathes, 

And Beauty leads the ball, — 
He little recks the oaken plank 

Shall be his palace wall ! 

All! little dreams the haughty Peer, 
The while his falcon flies — 

Or on the blood-bedabbled turf 
The antler' d quarry dies — 

That in his own ancestral Park 
The narrow dwelling lies ! 

344 



HOOD. 

But hauglity Peer and mighty King 
One doom shall overAvhelm ! 
The oaken cell 
Shall lodge him well 
Whose sceptre ruled a realm — 
While he who never knew a home 
Shall lind it in the Elm! 

The tall abounding Elm that grows 
In hedgerows up and down, 

In field and forest, copse and park. 
And in the peopled town, 

With colonies of noisy rooks 
That nestle on its crown. 

And Avell th' abounding Elm may grow 

In field and hedge so rife, 
In forest, copse, and wooded park, 

And 'mid the city's strife, — 
For every hour that passes by 

Shall end a human life!" 

The Phantom ends : the shade is gone ; 

The sky is clear and bright ; 
On turf, and moss, and fallen Tree, 

There glows a ruddy light; 
And bounding through the golden fern 

The rabbit comes to bite. 

The thrush's mate beside her sits, 

And pipes a merry lay; 
The dove is in the evergreens ; 

And on the larch's spray 
The fly-bird flutters up and down. 

To catch its tiny prey. 

345 



THE ELM TREE. 

The gentle liind and dappled fawn 

Are coining up the glade ; 
Each harmless furr'd and feather'd tlung 

Is glad, and not afraid — 
But on my sadden'd spirit still 

The Shadow leaves a shade : 

A secret, vague, prophetic gloom, 

As though by certain mark 
I knew the fore -appointed Tree, 

Within whose rugged bark 
This warm and living frame shall find 

Its narrow house and dark. 

That mystic Tree which breathed to me 

A sad and solemn sound, 
That sometimes murmur' d overhead, 

And sometimes underground — 
Within that shady Avenue, 

Where lofty Elms abound. 



346 



A^ 



IT 



?lfm.\i 
















PRINGLE. 



AFAR IN THE DESERT. 



Afar in the Desert 1 love to ride, 
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side: 
When the sorrows of life the soul o'ercast, 
And, sick of the Present, I cling to the Past ; 
When the eye is suffused with regretful tears, 
From the fond recollections of former years; 

:547 



AFAR IN THE DESERT. 

And shadows of things that have long smce fled 

Flit over the brain like the ghosts of the dead ; 

And my Native Land, whose magical name 

Tlirills to my heart like electric flame ; 

The home of my childhood ; the haunts of my prime ; 

All the passions and scenes of that rapturous time, 

When the feelings were young, and the world was new. 

Like the fresh bowers of Eden unfolding to view ; — 

All — nil now forsaken, forgotten, foregone ! 

And I, a lone exile, remembered of none ; 

My high aims abandoned, my good acts undone. 

Aweary of all that is under the sun, — 

With that sadness of heart which no stranger may scan. 

I fly to the Desert, afar from man ! 

Afar in the Desert I love to ride. 

With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side : 

Wljcn the wild turmoil of this wearisome life, 

With its scenes of oppression, corruption, and strife. — 

The proud man's fi-own, and the base man's fear. 

The scorner's laugh, and the sufferer's tear, — 

And malice, and meanness, and falsehood, and folly, 

Dispose me to musing and dark melancholy ; 

Wlien my bosom is full, and my thoughts are high, 

And ray soul is sick with the bondman's sigh ; 

Oh ! then there is freedom, and joy, and pride, 

Afar in the Desert alone to ride ! 

There is rapture to vault on the champing steed, 

And to bound away Avith the eagle's speed, 

Witli the death-fraught firelock in my hand, — 

Tlie only law of the Desert Land. 

Afar in the Desert I love to ride. 
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side ; 
Away, away from the dwellings of men. 
By the wild-deer's haunt, by the buffalo's glen ; 

348 



PRINGLE. 

By valleys remote, where the Orihi plays, 

Where the gnu, the gazelle, and the hartebeest graze, 

And the kudu and eland unhunted recline 

By the skirts of grey forests o'erhung with wild vine 

Where the elephant browses at peace in his wood, 

And the river-horse gambols unscared in the flood, 

And the mighty rhinoceros wallows at will 

In the fen where the wild-ass is drinking his fill. 

Afar in the Desert I love to ride. 
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side; 
O'er the brown Karroo, where the bleating cry 
Of the springbok's fawn sounds plaintively; 
And the timorous quagga's shrill whistling neigh 
Is heard by the fountain at twilight grey; 
Where the zebra wantonly tosses his mane. 
With wild hoof scouring the desolate plain ; 
And the fleet-footed ostrich over the waste 
Speeds like a horseman who travels in haste, 
Hieing away to the home of her rest. 
Where she and her mate have scoop'd their nest. 
Far hid from the pitiless plunderer's view 
In the pathless depths of the parch'd Karroo. 

Afar in the Desert I love to ride. 
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side; 
Away, away in the Wilderness vast 
Where the White Man's foot hath never pass'd. 
And the quiver'd Coranna or Becluuin 
Hath rarely cross'd Avith his roving clan: 
A region of emptiness, howling and drear, 
Which Man hath abandon'd from famine and fear; 
Wliich the snake and the lizard inhabit alone, 
With the twilight bat from the yawning stone; 
Where grass, nor herb, nor shrub lakes root. 
Save poisonous thorns that pierce the foot; 

349 



AFAR m TPIE DESERT. 

And the bitter melon, for food and drink, 
Is the pilgrim's fare by the salt lake's brink : 
A region of drought, where no river glides, 
Nor rippling brook with osiered sides ; 
Where sedgy pool, nor bubbling fount, 
Nor tree, nor cloud, nor misty mount, 
Appears, to refresh the aching eye ; 
But the barren earth and the burning sky, 
And the blank horizon, round and round, 
Spread — void of living sight or sound. 

And here, while the night winds round me sigh, 
And the stars burn bright in the midnight sky; 
As I sit apart by the desert stone. 
Like Elijah at Horeb's cave alone ; 
" A still small voice" comes through the wild 
(Like a father consoling his fretful child), 
Which banishes bitterness, wrath, and fear, 
Saying — "Man is distant, but God is near!' 



350 




LANDOE. 

THE WATER-NYMPH APPEARING TO THE SHEPHERD. 



'TwAs evcnliifr, though not sunset, and the tide, 
Level with tlicsc green meadows, seem'd yet higher 
351 



THE WATER-NYMPH APPEARING TO THE SHEPHER]). 

'Twas pleasant; and I loosen'd from my neck 
The pipe you gave me, and began to play. 
Oh that I ne'ei' had learnt the tuneful art ! 
It always brings us enemies or love. 
Well, I was playing, when above the waves 
Some swimmer's head methought I saw ascend ; 
I, sitting still, survey'd it, with my pipe 
Awkwardly held before my lips half-closed, — 
Gebir ! it Avas a Nymph ! a Nymph divine ! 
I cannot wait describing how she came. 
How I was sitting, how she first assum'd 
The sailor; of what happen'd there remains 
Enough to say, and too much to forget. 
The sweet deceiver stept upon this bank 
Before I Avas aware ; for with surprise 
Moments fly rapid as with love itself. 
Stooping to tune afresh the hoarsen'd reed, 
I heard a rustling, and where that arose 
My glance first lighted on her nimble feet. 
Her feet resembled those long shells explored 
By him who to befriend his steed's dim sight 
Would blow the pungent powder in the eye. 

Even her attire 
Was not of wonted w^oof nor vulgar art ; 
Her mantle show'd the yellow samphire-pod, 
Her girdle the dove-colour'd wave serene. 
" Shepherd," said she, " and will you wrestle now, 
And with the sailor's hardier race engage ?" 
I was rejoiced to hear it, and contrived 
How to keep up contention ; could I fail, 
By pressing not too strongly, yet to press? 
" Wliether a shepherd, as indeed you seem, 
Or whether of the hardier race you boast, 
I am not daunted ; no, I will engage !" 
"But first," said she, "Avhat wager will you lay?" 
"A sheep," I answered; "add Avhate'er you Avill.'' 



LANDOR. 

" I cannot," she replied, " make that return ; 
Our hided vessels in their pitchy round 
Seldom, unless from rapine, hold a sheep. 
But I have sinuous shells of pearly hue 
Within, and they that lustre have imbibed 
In the sun's palace-porch, where when unyoked 
His chariot-wheel stands midway in the wave : 
Shake one and it awakens ; then apply 
Its polisht lips to your attentive ear. 
And it remembers its august abodes, 
And murmurs as the ocean murmurs there. 
And I have others given me by the nymphs, 
Of sweeter sound than any pipe you have. 
P>ut we, by Neptune ! for no pipe contend, — 
This time a sheep I Avin, a pipe the next." 



RODERIGO AND JULIAN. 

THE REPROACH OF THE BEREAVED. 

Rod. Julian, thy gloomy soul still meditates — 
Plainly I see it — death to me : pursue 
The dictates of thy leaders ; let revenge 
Have its full sway; let Barbary prevail, 
And the pure creed her elders have embraced : 
Those placid sages hold assassination 
A most compendious supplement to law. 

Jul. Thou knowest not the one, nor I the other. 
Torn hast thou from me all my soul held dear; 
Mer form, her voice, all hast thou banisht from mo, 
353 ; 



EODERIGO AND JULIAN. 

Nor dai'e I, wretched as I am ! recal 

Those solaces of every grief erewhile. 

I stand abased before insulting crime, 

I falter like a criminal myself; 

The hand that hurl'd thy chariot o'er its wheels, 

That held thy steeds erect and motionless 

As molten statues on some palace-gate. 

Shakes as with palsied age before thee now. 

Gone is the treasure of my heart for ever, 

Without a father, mother, friend, or name. 

Daughter of Julian ! — Such was her delight — 

Such was mine too! what pride more innocent, 

Wlaat surely less deserving pangs like these, 

Than springs from filial and parental love ! 

Debarr'd from eveiy hope that issues forth 

To meet the balmy breath of early life, 

Her sadden'd days, all cold and colourless. 

Will stretch before her their whole weary length 

Amid the sameness of obscurity. 

She wanted not seclusion to unveil 

Her thoughts to heaven, cloister, nor midnight bell 

She found it in all places, at all hours : 

While to assuage my labours, she indulged 

A playfulness that shunn'd a mother's eye, 

Still to avert my perils there arose 

A piety that even from me retired. 



354 



JOSEPH BLANCO WHITE. 



NIGHT AND DEATH. 



Mysterious night ! when our first parent knew 
Thee from report Divine, and heard thy name, 
Did he not tremble for this lovely frame, 

This glorious canopy of light and blue? 

Yet, 'neath a curtain of translucent dew, 

Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame, 

Hesperus, Avith the host of heaven, came, 

And lo ! creation widen'd in man's view. 

Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed 
AVithin thy beams, O sun ! or who could find, 

Whilst fly, and leaf, and insect stood revealed, 
That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind ? 

Why do Ave, then, shun death with anxious sti'ife? 

If light can thus deceive, wherefore not life*? 



355 




KEBLE. 



• Consider the lilies of the lielil, how they grow." 



Sweet nurslings of the vernal skies, 
Bath'd in soft airs, and fed ^^'itll dew, 
356 



KEBLE. 

What more than magic in jou lies, 

To fill the heart's fond view? 
In chilclhoocVs sports, companions gay, 
In sorrow, on Life's downward way, 
HoAv soothing! in our last decay. 
Memorials prompt and true. 

Relics ye are of Eden's bowers. 
As pure, as fragrant, and as lair, 

As when ye crown'd the sunshine hours 
Of happy wanderers there. 

Fall'n all beside — the world of life. 

How is it stain'd with fear and strife ! 

In Eeason's world what storms are rife, 
What passions range and glai'e! ^ 

But cheerful and unchang'd the while 
Your first and perfect form ye show. 

The same that won Eve's matron smile 
Li the world's opening glow. 

The stars of heaven a course are taught 

Too high above our human thought; 

Ye may be found if ye are sought, 
And as we gaze, we know. 

Ye dwell beside our paths and homes. 

Our paths of sin, our homes of sorrow- 
And guilty man, where'er he roams. 
Your innocent mirth may borrow. 
The birds of air before us fleet. 
They cannot brook our shame to meet — 
But we may taste your solace sweet, 
And come again to-morrow. 

Ye fearless in your nests abide — 
•Nor may Ave scorn, too proudly aaIsc, 



CHILDREN'S THANKFULNESS. 

Your silent lessons, undescried 

By all but lowly eyes : 
For ye could draw th' admiring gaze 
Of Him who worlds and hearts surveys : 
Your order wild, your fragrant maze, 

He taught us how to prize. 

Y'e felt your Maker's smile that hour, 
As when He paused and own'd you good 

His blessing on earth's primal bower, 
Ye felt it all renew' d. 

What care ye now, if winter's storm 

Sweep ruthless o'er each silken form? 

Christ's blessing at your heart is warm, — 
Ye fear no vexing mood. 

Alas! of thousand bosoms kind. 
That daily court you and caress, 

How few the happy secret find 
Of your calm loveliness ! 

•'Live for to-day! to-morrow's light 

To-morrow's cares shall bring to sight; 

(tO sleep, like closing flowers, at night. 
And Heaven thy moi'n will bless." 



CHILDREN'S THANKFULNESS. 

"A joyful aud a pleasant thing it is to be thankful." 

Why so stately, maiden fail', 

Rising in thy nurse's arms 
With that condescending air ; 

Gathering up thy queenly charms, 
358 



KEBLE. • 

Like some gorgeous Indian bird, 
Which, when at eve the bahny copse is stirr'd, 

Turns the glowing neck to chide 
Th' 'irreverent foot-fall, then makes haste to hide 

Again its lustre deep 
Under the purple wing, best home of downy sleep? 

Not as yet she comprehends 

How the tongues of men reprove. 

But a spirit o'er her bends, 

Train'd in heaven to courteous love. 

And with wondering grave rebuke 
Tempers, to-day, shy tone and bashful look. — 

Graceless one, 'tis all of thee. 
Who for her maiden bounty, full and free, 

The violet from her gay 
And guileless bosom, didst no word of thanks repay- 
Therefore, lo, she opens wide 

Both her blue and wistful eyes, — 

Breathes her grateful chant, to chide 
Our too tardy sympathies. 

Little babes and angels bright — 
They muse, be sure, and Avonder, day and night, 

How th' all-holy Hand should give, 
The sinner's hand in thanklessness receive. 

We see it and we hear. 
But wonder not: for why? we feel it all too near. 

Not in vain, when feasts are spread. 

To the youngest at the board 
Call we to incline the head, 

And pronounce the solemn word. 
Not in vain they clasp and raise 
The soft, pure fingers in unconscious praise, — 
Taught, perchance, by pictur'd Avail 
3.59 



CI^DREN'S THANKFULNESS. 

How little ones before the Lord may fall, 

How to His lov'd caress 
Reach out the restless arm, and near and nearer press. 

Children in their joyous ranks, 
As you pace the village street, 

Fill the air Avith smiles and thanks 
If but once one babe you greet. 

Never weary, never dim. 
From thrones seraphic mounts th' eternal hymn. 

Babes and angels grudge no praise : — 
But elder souls, to whom His saving Avays 

Are open, fearless take 
Their portion, hear the Grace, and no meek answer make. 

Save our blessings. Master, save 
From the blight of thankless eye : 

Teach us for all joys to craA^e 
Benediction pure and high. 

Own them given, endure them gone, 
Shrink from their hardening touch, yet prize them Avon : 

Prize them as rich odours, meet 
For Love to lavish on His sacred feet ; — 

Prize them as sparkles bright 
Of heavenly dew, from yon o'erflowing well of light. 



3G0 



MILMAN. 

THE HEBREW WEDDING. 

To the sound of timbrels sweet, 
Moving slow oui' solemn feet, 
We have borne thee on the road. 
To the virgin's blest abode ; 
With thy yellow torches gleaming, 
And thy scarlet mantle streaming, 
And the canopy above 
Swaying as Ave slowly move. 

Thou hast left the joyous feast. 
And the mirth and wine have ceast 
And now we set thee down before 
The jealously-unclosing door ; 
That the favour'd youth admits. 
Where the veiled virgin sits 
In tlie bliss of maiden fear, 
^V"aiting our soft tread to hear, 
And the music's brisker din, 
At the bridegroom's entering in : 
Entering in a welcome guest 
To the chamber of his rest. 

Chokus of Maidens. 

Now the jocund song is thine. 
Bride of David's kingly line ; 
How thy dove-like bosom trcmbleth, 
And thy shrouded eye resemblcth 
Violets, when the dews of eve 
A moist and tremulous glitter leaA-e 
301 




On the bashful sealed lid! 
Close within the bride-veil hid, 
Motionless thou sitt'st and mute ; 
Save that at the soft salute 
Of each entering maiden friend, 
Thou dost rise and softly bend. 

Hark ! a brisker, merrier glee ! 
The doijir unfolds, — 'tis he! 'tis he! 
Thus we lift our lamps to meet him, 
Thus we touch our lutes to greet him. 
Thou shalt give a fonder meeting. 
Thou shalt give a tenderer greeting. 
362 



MILMAN. 



THE COMING OF THE JUDGE. 

Even thus, amid thy pride and luxury, 

O Earth ! shall that last coming burst on thee, 

That secret coming of the Son op Man. 
When all the cherub-throning clouds shall shine, 
Irradiate with his bright advancing sign : 

When that Great Husbandman shall wave his fan. 
Sweeping, like chaff, thy Avealth and pomp away: 
Still, to the noontide of that nightless day, 

Shalt thou thy wonted dissolute course maintain. 
Along the busy mart and crowded street, 
The buyer and the seller still shall meet. 

And marriage-feasts begin their jocund strain : 
Still to the pouring out the Cup of Woe; 
Till Earth, a drunkard, reeling to and fro. 
And mountains molten by his burning feet, 
And Heaven his presence own, all red with furnace heat. 

The hundred-gated Cities then. 

The Towers and Temples, nam'd of men 
Eternal, and the Thrones of Kings; 

The gilded summer Palaces, 

The courtly bowers of love and case, 

Where still the Bird of Pleasure sings ; — 

Ask ye the destiny of them? 

Go, gaze on fallen Jerusalem ! 
Yea, mightier names are in the fatal roll, 

'Gainst earth and heaven God's standard is unfurlM : 
The skies are .shrivell'd like a burning scroll, 

And the vast conunon doom ensepulchres the world. 

Oh ! who shall then survive ? 
Oh ! who shall stand and live t 
3G3 



THE COlVnNG or THE JUDGE. 

A^Tien all that hath been is no more : 

When for the round earth hung in air, 

With all its constellations fair 
In the sky's azure canopy ; 
When for the breathing Earth, and sparkling Sea, 

Is but a fiery deluge without shore, 
Heaving along the abyss profound and dark, 
A iiery deluge, and without an Ark. 

Lord of all power, when thou art there alone 
On thy eternal fiery-wheeled throne, 

That in its high meridian noon 

Needs not the perish'd sim nor moon : 
When thou art there in thy presiding state. 

Wide-sceptred Monarch o'er the realm of doom ; 

When from the sea-depths, from earth's darkest womb, 
The dead of all the ages round thee wait : 
And when the tribes of wickedness are strown 

Like forest-leaves in th' autumn of thine ire : 
Faithful and True ! thou still wilt save thine own ! 

The Saints shall dwell within th' unharming fire : 
Each white robe spotless, blooming every palm. 

Even safe as we by this stUl fountain's side, 

So shall the Church, thy bright and mystic Bride, 
Sit on the stormy gulf a halcyon bird of calm. 

Yes, 'mid yon angiy and destroying signs, 

O'er us the rainbow of thy mercy shines ; 

We hail, we bless the covenant of its beam, 
Almighty to avenge, Almightiest to redeem. 



36-1 



LEIGH HUNT. 



AN ITALIAN GARDEN. 

A NOBLE range it was, of many a rood, 

Wall'd round with trees, and ending in a Avood : 

Indeed, the whole was leafy ; and it had 

A winding stream about it, clear and glad, 

That danced from shade to shade, and on its Avay 

Seem'd smiling with delight to feel the day. 

There was the pouting rose, both red and Avhite, 

The flamy heart's-ease, flush'd with purple light, 

Blush-hiding strawberry, sunny-colored box. 

Hyacinth, handsome with his clustering locks. 

The lady lily, looking gently down, 

Pure lavender, to lay in bridal-gown, 

The daisy, lovely on both sides, — in short. 

All the sweet cups to which the bees resort. 

With plots of grass, and perfum'd Avalks between 

Of sweetbrier, honeysuckle, and jessamine, 

With orange, whose warm leaves so finely suit. 

And look as if they shade a golden fruit; 

And 'midst the flowers, turf'd round beneath a shade 

Of circling pines, a babbling fountain play'd, 

And 'twixt their shafts you saw the water bright, 

Wliich through the darksome tops glimmer'd with showering 

light. 
So now you walk'd beside an odorous bed 
Of gorgeous hues, purple, and gold, and red ; 
And now turn'd off into a leafy walk. 
Close and continuous, fit for lovers' talk ; 

3G5 




And now pursued the stream, and as you trod 
OnAvard and ouAA'ard o'er the velvet sod, 
Felt on your face an air, A\-atery and sweet, 
And a new sense in your soft -lighting feet; 

3G6 



LEIGH HUNT. 

And then, perhaps, you enter'd upon shades, 

Pillow'd with dells and uplands 'twixt the glades, 

Through which the distant palace, now and then, 

Look'd lordly forth with many-window'd ken, — 

A land of trees, which reaching round about, 

In shady blessing stretch'd their old arms out. 

With spots of sunny opening, and Avith nooks 

To lie and read in, sloping into brooks, 

Where at her drink you startled the slim deer, 

Retreating lightly with a lovely fear. 

And all about, the birds kept leafy house. 

And sung and darted in and out the boughs; 

And all about, a lovely sky of blue 

Clearly was felt, or down the leaves laugh'd through ; 

And here and there, in every part, were seats. 

Some in the open walks, some in retreats 

With bowering leaves o'erhead, to which the eye 

Look'd up half sweetly and half awfully, — 

Places of nestling green, for poets made. 

Where, when the sunshine struck a yellow shade, 

The rugged trunks, to inward-peeping sight, 

Throng'd in dark pillars up the gold green light. 

But 'twixt the wood and flowery Avalks, half-way, 
And form'd of both, the loveliest portion lay, 
A spot that struck you like enchanted ground : 
It was a shallow dell, set in a mound 
Of sloping shrubs, that mounted by degrees — 
The birch and poplar mixed with heavier trees ; 
Down by whose roots, descending darkly still, 
(You saw it not, but heard) there gush'd a rill, 
Whose low sweet talking seem'd as if it said 
Something eternal to that happy shade. 
The ground within was lawn, with plots of flowers 
Ilcap'd towards the centre, and with citron bowers ; 
And in the midst of all, cluster'd with bay 
And myrtle, and just glancing to the day, 

3G7 



ABOU BEN ADHEM. 

Lurk'd a pavilion, — a delicious sight, — 
Small, marble, well-proportion'd, mellowy white, 
With yellow vine-leaves sprinkled, — but no more,- 
And a young orange either side the door. 
The door was to the wood, forward and square ; 
The rest was domed at top, and circular ; 
And through the dome the only light came in, 
Tinged, as it enter'd, with the vine-leaves thin. 



ABOU BEN ADHEM. 

Abou Ben Adiiem (may his tribe increase!) 
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, 
And saw, Avithin the moonlight in his room, 
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, 
An Angel writing in a book of gold: — 
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold. 
And to the Presence in the room he said, 
"What writest thou?" — The Vision rais'd its head, 
And "with a look made of all sweet accord, 
Answer'd, "The names of those who love the Lord." 
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so," 
Replied the Angel. Abou spoke more low. 
But eheerly still ; and said, " I pray thee then, 
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men." 

The Angel wrote, and vanish'd. The next night 
It came again with a great wakening light. 
And show'd the names whom love of God had bless'd, 
And, lo ! Ben Adhem' s name led all the rest. 



S68 




CROLY. 



THE ALHAMBRA. 



1'al.vce of Beauty! -where tlio Moorish Lord. 

King of tlie bow, the bridle, and the sword, 

Sat like a Genie in the diamond's blaze. 

Oil ! to have seen thee in the ancient days, 

When at thy morning gates the coursers stood, 

The "thousand" milk-white, Yemen's fiery Itlood. 

In pearl and ruby harness'd for the King ; 

And through thy portals pour'd the gorgeous flood 

Of jewelFd Sheik and Emir, hastening, 

Before the sky the dawning puri)le show'd, 

Tiieir turbans at the Caliph's feet to fling. 

Lovely thy morn — thy evening lovelier still. 

AV'hen at the waking of the first blue star 

That trembled on the Atalaya hill, 

r])v splendours of the trumpet's voice arose. 



THE ALHAMBRA. 

Brilliant and bold, and yet no sound of ^\'ar ; 

But summoning thy beauty from repose, 

The shaded slumber of the burning noon. 

Then in the slant sun all thy fountains shone, 

Shooting the sparkling column from the vase 

Of crystal cool, and falling in a haze 

Of rainbow hues on floors of porphyry, 

And the rich bordering beds of every bloom 

That breathes to African or Indian sky, 

Carnation, tuberose, thick anemone ; 

Then was the harping of the minstrels heard. 

In the deep arbours, or the regal hall, 

Hushing the tumult of the festival. 

When the pale bard his kindling eye-ball rear'd. 

And told of Eastern glories, silken hosts, 

Tower'd elephants, and chiefs in topaz arm'd ; 

Or of the myriads from the cloudy coasts 

Of the far AVestern sea, — the sons of blood. 

The iron men of tournament and feud. 

That round the bulwarks of their father swarm' d. 

Doom'd by the Moslem scimitar to fall, 

Till the Eed Cross was hurl'd from Salem's wall. 

Wliere are thy pomps, Alhambra, earthly sun, 
That had no rival, and no second "? — gone ! 
Thy glory down the arch of time has roU'd, 
Like the great day-star to the ocean dim. 
The billoAvs of the ages o'er thee swim, 
Gloomy and fathomless ; thy tale is told. 
Where is thy horn of battle? that, but blown. 
Brought every chief of Afric from his throne; 
Brought every spear of Afric from the wall ; 
Brought every charger barbed from the stall. 
Till all its tribes sat mounted on the shore ; 
Waiting the waving of thy torch to pour 
The living deluge on the fields of Spain. 
Queen of Earth's loveliness, there was a stain 

370 



CROLY. 



Upon thy brow — the stain of guilt and gore : 

Thy course was bright, bold, treach'rous — and 'tis o'er. 

The spear and diadem are from thee gone ; 

Silence is now sole monarch of thy throne ! 



FLORA. 



The flowers are Nature's jewels, with whose wealth 
She decks her Summer beauty; Primrose sweet, 
With blossoms of pure gold ; enchanting Kose, 
That, like a virgin queen, salutes the Sun, 
Dew-diadem'd ; the perfumed Pink, that studs 
The earth with clustering ruby ; Hyacmth, 
The hue of Venus' tresses ; Myrtle green, 
That maidens think a charm for constant love, 
And give night-kisses to it, and so dream ; 
Fair Lily! woman's emblem, and oft twined 
Round bosoms, Avhere its silver is unseen, 
Such is their whiteness ; downcast Violet, 
Turning away its sweet head from the wind, 
As she her delicate and startled ear 
From passion's tale ! 



•Ml 



FERGUSON. 



THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR. 



v)oME, see the Dolphin's Anchor ibrged ; 'tis at a white heat now: 

The bellows ceased, the flames decreased ; though on the forge's brow , 

The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound ; 

And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round. 

All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare ; 

Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass there. 

riie windlass strains the tackle chains, the black mound heaves below ; 

And red and deep, a hundred veins burst out at every throe: 

It rises, roars, rends all outright — O, Vulcan, what a glow! 

"Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright ; the high sun shines not so ! 

i'he high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery fearful show; 

The roof-ril)s swarth, the candent hearth, the middy lurid row 

Of smiths, that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe ; 

As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing monster, slow 

Sinks on the anvil — all about the ftices fiery grow — 

•' Hurrah !" they shout, " leap out — leap out ;" bang, bang, the sledges go : 

Hurrah ! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low ; 

A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing blow ; 

rhc leathern mail rebounds the hail ; the rattling cinders strow 

i'he ground around ; at every bound the sweltering fountains flow ; 

And thick and loud the swinking crowd, at every stroke, pant "hoi" 

Leap out, leap out, my masters ; leap out and lay on load ! 
Let's forge a goodly anchor ; a Bower, thick and broad ; 
For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow I bode ; 
And I see the good ship riding all in a perilous road, 
/ 372 



FERGUSON. 

The low reef rolling on her lee ; the roll of ocean poured 

Fi-om stem to stern, sea after sea ; the mainmast by the board ; 

The bulwarks down ; the rudder gone ; the boats stove at the chains 

But courage still, brave mariners — the Bower yet remains. 

And not an inch to flinch he deigns save when ye pitch sky high. 

Then moves his head, as though he said, "Fear nothing — here am IT 

Swing in your strokes in order; let foot and hand keep time, 

Your blows make music sweeter far" than any steeple's chime ; 

But while ye swing your sledges, sing ; and let the burden be, 

The anchor is the anvil king, and royal craftsmen Ave ! 

Strike in, strike in — the sparks begin to dull their rustling red; 

Our hammers ring Avith sharper din, our work will soon be sped : 

Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich array 

For a hammock at the roaring boAvs, or an oozy couch of clay ; 

Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry craftsmen hero, 

For the yeo-heave-o', and the heaAC-aAvay, and the sighing seaman's cheer 

When, Aveighing slow, at eve they go, far, far from love and home ; 

And sobbing SAveethearts, in a roAA', Avail o'er the ocean foam. 

In li\ id and obdurate gloom he darkens doAvn at last ; 
A shapely one lie is, and strong, as e'er from cat Avas cast. — 
O trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life like me, 
What pleasures Avould thy toils rcAvard beneath the deep green sea I 
O deep sea-diA'cr, avIio might then behold such sights as thou ? 
The hoary monsters' palaces ! methinks Avhat joy 'tAA-ere noAv 
To go plumb plunging doAvn amid the assembly of the Avhales, 
And feel the churned sea round me boil beneath their scourging tails 
Then deep in tangle-AA^oods to fight the fierce sea luucorn, 
And send him foiled and bellowing back, for all his ivory hoi-n ; 
To leave the sul)tle SAvorder-fish of Ijony blade forlorn ; 
And for the ghastly-grinning shark to laugh his jaAvs to scorn ; 
To leap doAvn on the kraken's back, where 'mid Norwegian isles 
lie lies, a lubber anchorage for sudden shalloAvcd miles ; 
Till snorting, like an under-sea volcano, off he rolls ; 
JNIeanAvhile to swing, a-buffeting the far-astonished shoals 

373 



THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR. 

Of his back -browsing ocean calves ; or, haply in a cove, 
Shell-strown, and consecrate of old to some Undine's love, 
To find the long-haired mermaidens ; or, hard by icy land!^, 
To wrestle with the sea-serpent, upon cerulean sands. 

O broad-armed fisher of the deep, whose sports can equal thine? 

The Dolphin weighs a thousand tons that tugs thy cable line ; 

And night by night 'tis thy delight, thy glory day by day. 

Through sable sea and breaker white, the giant game to play; 

But, shamer of our little sports ! forgive the name I gave, 

A fisher's joy is to destroy — thine office is to save. 

O lodger in the sea-king's halls, couldst thou but undei'stand 

Whose be the white bones by thy side, or who that dripping band. 

Slow swaying in the heaving waves that round about thee bend, 

With sounds like breakers in a dream blessing their ancient friend : 

Oh, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps round tliee. 

Thine iron side Avould swell with pride ; thou'dst leap within the sea '. 

Give honour to their memories who left the pleasant strand, 

To shed their blood so freely for the love of fatherland. 

Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy churchyard gra\e, 

So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing wave : 

Oh, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung. 

Honour him for their memory, Avhose bones he goes among! 




MOULTEIE. 



THE THREE SONS. 



I HAVE a sou, a, little son, a boy just five yeai's old, 
With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of gentle mould ; 
They tell me that unusual grace in all his Avays appears, 
That my child is grave and wise of heart beyond his childish year 
I cannot say how this may be, — I know his face is fair, 
And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and serious air : 
I know his heart is kind and fond, I know he loveth me 
1)11. t joAoth yet his mother more with grateful fervency. 

375 



THE THREE SONS. 

JJut that which others most admire is the thought ^vhich tills hi.- uiiiul : 

The food for grave inquiring speech he everywhere doth find : 

Strange questions doth he ask of me, when -vve together walk ; 

He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as children talk ; 

Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on bat or ball, 

But looks on manhood's ways and Avorks, and aptly mimics all. 

His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes perplext 

With thoughts about this world of ours, and thoughts about the next 

He kneels at his dear mother's knee, she teaches him to pray, 

And strange, and sweet, and solemn then are the words which he will t^ay, 

Oh, should my gentle child be spared to manhood's years like mo, 

A holier and a wiser man I trust that he will be : 

And when I look into his eyes, and stroke his thoughtful brow. 

I dare not think what I should feel, were I to lose him now. 

I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three ; 

rU not declare how bright and fair his little features be, 

How sUver sweet those tones of his when he prattles on my kiice. 

I do not think his light-blue eye is, like his brother's, keen. 

Nor his brow so full of childish thought as his hath ever been ; 

l>ut his little heart's a fountain pure of kind and tender feeling, 

And his every look's a gleam of light, rich depths of love revealing. 

When he walks with me, the country folk, who pass us in the street. 

Will shout with joy, and bless my boy, he looks so mild and sweet. 

.\ playfellow is he to all, and yet, with cheerful tone. 

Will sing his little song of love, when left to sport alone. 

His presence is like sunshine sent to gladden home and hearth. 

To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our mirth. 

Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his heart may prove 

As sweet a home for heavenly grace as now for earthly love. 

And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching eyes must dim, 

frod comfort us for all the love which we shall lose in liini. 

I have a son, a third sweet son ; his age I can not tell, 
I^'or they reckon not by years or months where he is gone to dwell. 
To us, for fourteen anxious months, his infant smiles vvei-e given, 
And then he bade farewell to Earth, and went to live in HeaAcn. 

376 



MOULTRIE. 

I cannot tuU what Ibrni is his, what looks he weaveth now, 

Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining eeraph bro^v. 

The thoughts that till his sinless soul, the bliss which he dolli lecl. 

Are numbcr'd with the secret things which God will not reveal. 

lint I know (for God hath told me this) that he is now at rest. 

^Vhere other blessed infants be, on their Saviour's loving breast. 

I know his spirit feels no more this weary load of flesh, 

IJiit his sleep is bless'd with endless dreams of joy for ever fre^h. 

I know the angels fold him close beneath their glittering wings, 

And sootlic him with a song that breathes of Heaven's divinest thing.-. 

I know that we shall meet our babe, (his mother dear and I,) 

When God for aye shall wipe away all tears from every eye. 

Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss can never cease ; 

Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his is certain peace. 

It may be that the tempter's wiles their souls from bliss may sever, 

Hut if our own poor faith fail not, he must be ours for ever. 

When we think of what our darling is, and what we still must be. — 

When we muse on that world's perfect Wliss, and this world's misery, — 

When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel this grief and pain. — 

Oh ! we'd rather lose ouv other two, than have him here a^ain. 



377 



"FOKGET THEE?" 



« FORGET THEE ?" 

" FoEGET thee f if to dream by night, and muse on thee by day, 

If all the worship deep and wild a poet's heart can pay, 

If prayers in absence breathed for thee to Heaven's protecting power. 

If winged thoughts that flit to thee, — a thousand in an hour. 

If busy Fancy blending thee with all my future lot, — 

If this thou call'st "forgetting," thou, indeed, shalt be forgot! 

"Forget thee?" Bid the forest-birds forget their sweetest tune; 
" Forget thee ?" Bid the sea forget to swell beneath the moon ; 
Bid the thirsty flowers forget to drink the eve's refreshmg dew; 
Thyself forget thine own "dear land" and its "mountains wild and blue. 
Forget each old familiar face, each long-remember'd spot, — 
When these things are forgot by thee, then thou shalt be forgot! 

Keep, if thou wilt, thy maiden peace, stUl calm and fancy-free, 
For God forbid thy gladsome heart should grow less glad for mc ; 
Yet, while that heart is still unwon, oh ! bid not mine to rove, 
But let it nurse its humble faith, and uncomplaining love ; — 
If these, preserved for patient years, at last avail me not, 
Forget me then ; — but ne'er believe that thou canst be forgot ! 



378 




"1\ 



v^^ymmhwjf^. 



MACAULAY 



THE SPANISH ARMADA. 



ArrEND, all yc who list to hear our noble England's prai.-^c ; 
I tell of the thrice-famous deeds she wrought in ancient days, 
^Vhen that great Fleet Invincible against her bore in vain 
The richest spoils of INIexico, the stoutest hearts of Spain. 
It was about the lovely close of a warm summer day, 
There came a gallant merchant-ship full sail to Plymouth Bay 

37!> 



THE SPANISH ARMADA. 

llcr iTcw liaLli .seen Castile's black lleet, beyond Auiiyiiy's Isle, 

At earliest twilight, on the waves lie heaving many a mile ; 

At sunrise she escaped their van, by God's especial grace ; 

And the tall Pinta, till the noon, had held her close in chase. 

Forthwith a guard at every gun was placed along the wall; 

The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgecumbc's lofty hall ; 

Many a light fishing-bark put out to pry along the coast; 

And with loose rein and bloody spur rode inland many a post. 

With his white hair unbonnetcd, the stout old sheriff comes ; 

IJehind him march the halbci-diers ; before him sound the drums ; 

His yeomen round the market-cross make clear an ample space, 

For there behoves him to set up the standard of Her Grace. 

And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance the bells, 

As slow upon the labouring v\and the i-oyal blazon swells. 

Look how the Lion of the sea lifts up his ancient crown. 

And underneath his deadly paw treads the gay lilies down. 

So stalked he when he tui'ned to fiight, on that famed Picard field, 

Bohemia's plume, and Genoa's bow, and Ca!sar's eagle shield : 

So glared he when at Agincourt in wrath he turned to bay, 

And crushed and torn beneath his claws the princely hunters lay. 

IIo ! strike the; fiagstaff' deep, Sir Knight : ho! scatter fiowei'S, fair maids 

IIo! gunners, fire a loud salute: ho! gallants, draw your blades: 

Thou sun, shine on her joyously — ye breezes, waft her wide ; 

Oiu" glorious Semper Eadejf, the banner of our piide. 

'J'lie freshening breeze of eve unfurl'd that banner's massy fold. 
The parting gl(!am of sunshine kissed that haughly scroll of gold ; 
Night sunk upon the dusky beach, and on the purj)le sea. 
Such night in England ne'er had been,- nor e'er again shall be. 
l''i-om Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to Milford Bay, 
That time of slumlier was as bright and busy as the day; 
For swift to east and swift to west tlic ghastly wai'-flame spread ; 
High on St. Michael's Mount it shone: it shone on Beachy Head. 
l*\ir on the deep the Spaniard saw, along each southern shire, 
Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinkling points of fire ; 
'I'lie fisher left his skiff to rock on Tamar's glittering waves : 
The rugged miners poured to war from Mendip's sunless caves : 
O'er Longleat's towers, o'er Cranboiu'ne's oaks, the fiery herald flew: 

:JS0 



MACAULAY. 

He roused the slicplierds of Stonoliengo, tlic rangers of licaulleu : 
Highl pliarp niul (luick the bells all night rang out from Bristol town 
And ere the day thiec hundred horse had met on Clifton down ; 
The sentinel on >Vhitehall Gate looked forth into the niixht, 
And saw o'erhanging Kiehniond Hill the streak of blood-rod li<dit. 
Then bugle's note and cannon's roar the death-like silence broke, 
And with one start, and with one cry, the royal city w'oke. 
At once on all her stately gates arose the answerino- fires ; 
At once the wild alarum clashed from all her reeling spires; 
From all the batteries of the Tower jjealed loud the voice of fear : 
And all the thousand masts of Thames sent back a louder cheer; 
And Ironi the farthest wards was heard the rush of hurrying feet, 
And the broad streams of flags and pikes dashed down each roai'ing street ; 
And broader still became the blaze, and louder still the din. 
As fast from every village round the horse came spurring- in: 
And eastAvard straight from wild Blackhcatli the warlike errand went. 
And roused in many an ancient hall the gallant squires of Kent- 
Southward from Surrey's pleasant hills ilew those bright couriers forth : 
High on bleak Ilampstead's swarthy moor they started for the north; 
And on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded still, — 
All night from tower to tower they sprang; they sprang from hill to hill : 
Till the proud peak unfurl'd the flag o'er Darwin's rocky dales, 
Till like volcanoes flared to heaven the stormy hills of Wales, 
Till tAvelve fair counties saw the blaze on Malvern's lonely height. 
Till streamed in crimson on the Avind the Wrckiii's ci-est of light. 
Till broad and fierce the star came forth on Ely's stately fane. 
And tower and hamlet rose in arms o'er all the boundless plain ; 
Till Belvoir's lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln sent, 
And Lincoln sped the message on o'er the wide vale of I'l-ent; 
Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on Gaunt's embattled pile. 
And the red glare o!i Skiddaw roused the burohers of Carlisle. 



:]81 



MOTHERWELL. 



JEANIE MORRISON. 



I've wandered east, I've wandered west, 

Through mony a weary way; 
But never, never can forget 

The luve o' life's young day! 
The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en, 

May weel be black gin Yule ; 
But blacker fa' awaits the heart 

Where first fond luve grows cule. 

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 

/^The thochts o' bygane years 

(Still fling their shadows ower my path, 

\. And blind my een wi' tears : 

They blind my een wi' saut, saut teai'S, 

And sair and sick I pine, 
As memory idly summons up 

The blithe blinks o' langsyne. 

'Twas then we luvit ilk ithcr weel, 

'Twas then we twa did part ; 
Sweet time — sad time ! twa bairns at scule, 

Twa bairns, and but ae heart! 
'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink, 

To leir ilk ither lear ; 
And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed. 

Remembered evermair. 
382 



MOTHERWELL. 

I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, 

When sitting on that bink, 
Cheek touchin' cheek, loof lock'd in loof, 

What our wee heads could think? 
When baith bent doun ower ae braid page, 

Wi' ae buik on our knee, 
Thy lips were on thy lesson, but 

My lesson was in thee. 

Oh, mind ye how we hung our heads, 

How cheeks brent red wi' shame, 
Whene'er the scule-weans laughin' said, 

We cleek'd thegither hame'? 
And mind ye o' the Saturdays, 

(The scule then skail't at noon,) 
When we ran aff to speel the braes— 

The broomy braes o' June? 

My head rins round and round about, 

My heart flows like a sea. 
As ane by ane the thochts rush back 

0' scule-time and o' thee. 

(Oh, mornin' life! oh, mornin' luvo ! 
Oh lichtsome days and lang, 
When hinnied hopes around our hearts 
Like simmer blossoms sprang ! 

Oh mind ye, luve, how aft we left 

The deavin' dinsome toun. 
To wander by the green burnside. 
And hear its waters croon? 
/The simmer leaves hung ower our bi'Mh, 
I The flowers burst round our feet, 
( And in the gloamin' o' the wood, 
V^ The thro^^sil whusslit sweet : 
aS3 



JEANIE MOEllISON. 

Tlie tliro!^8il whusslit in the wood, 

The burn sang to the trees, 
And we with Nature's heart in tunc. 

Concerted harmonies; 
And on the knowe abune the burn, 

For hours tliegither sat 
In the silentness o' joy, till baith 

Wi' very gladness grat. 

Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison, 

Tears trinkled doun your cheek, 
Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane 
Ilad ony power to speak! 
/ That was a time, a blessed time, 

When hearts were fresh and young, 
When freely gushed all feelings forth, 
*\^ Unsyllabled — unsung ! 



I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, 

Gin I hae been to thee 
As closely twined wi' earliest thochts, 

As ye hae been to me? 
Oh ! tell me gin their music fills 

Thine ear as it does mine ; 
Oh! say gin e'er your heart grows grit 

Vi^i dreaminss o' lano-svne ? 



I've Avandercd cast, I've wandered west, 

I've borne a weary lot ; 
But in my wanderings, far or near. 

Ye never were foi'got. 
The fount that first burst frae this hcarf. 

Still travels on its way ; 
And channels deeper as it rins, 

Tlie luve o' life's young day. 
3St 



MOTHERWELL. 

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 
Since we were sindered young, 
/I've never seen your face, nor heard 
^^^ The music o' your tongue ; 
But I coukl hug all wretchedness, 

And happy could I die, 
Did I but ken your heart still dreamed 
O' bygane days and me ! 



THEY COME ! THE MERRY SUMMER MONTHS. 



TiiEY come ! the merry summer months of Beauty, Song, and Flowers ; 
They come ! the gladsome months that bring thick leafiness to boAvers. 
^'^p, up, my heart, and walk abroad, fling cark and care aside, 
Seek silent hills, or rest thyself where peaceful waters glide ; 
Or, underneath the shadow vast of patriarchal tree. 
Scan through its leaves the cloudless sky in rapt tranquillity. 

The grass is soft, its velvet touch is grateful to the hand, 

And like the kiss of maiden love, the breeze is sweet and bland ; 

The daisy and the buttercup are nodding courteously, 

It stirs their blood Avith kindest love, to bless and welcome thee : 

And mark how with thine own thin locks, — they now are silvery grey, — 

That blissful breeze is wantoning, and whispering "Be gay!" 

There is no cloud that sails along the ocean of yon sky. 
But hath its own Avinged mariners to give it melody : 
Thou seest their glittering fans outspread all gleaming like red gol<l ; 
And hark ! with shrill pipe musical, their merry course they hold. 

385 li 1-. 



A SOLEMN CONCEIT. 

God bless them nil, these little ones, who far above this earth. 
Can make a scoff of its mean joys, and vent a nobler mirtli. 

But soft ! mine ear upcaught a sound ; from yonder wood it came ; 
The spirit of the dim green glade did breathe his own glad name ; — 
Yes, it is he ! the hermit bird, that apart from all his kind 
Slow spells his beads monotonous to the soft western wind ; 
Cuckoo! Cuckoo! he sings again, — his notes are void of art, 
Q^ut simplest strains do soonest sound the deep founts of the heart ! 

(iood Lord ! it is a gracious boon for thought-crazed wight like me. , 
To smell again these summer flowers beneath this summer tree ! 
To suck once more in every breath their little souls away, 
And feed my fancy with fond dreams of youth's bright summer day, 
When rushing forth like imtamed colt, the reckless truant boy 
^V"andered through green Avoods all day long, a mighty heart of jo}- 1 

/I'm sadder now, I have had cause ; but O ! I'm proud to think 
/ That each pure joy-fount loved of yore, I yet delight to drink ; — 

Leaf, blossom, blade, hill, valley, stream, the calm unclouded sky, 
VStill mingle music in my dreams as in the days gone by. 

When summer's loveliness and light fall round me dark and cold, 
I'll bear indeed life's heaviest curse, — a heart that hath waxed old ! 



A SOLEMN CONCEIT. 

Stately trees are growing, 
Lusty winds are blowing, 
And mighty rivers flowing 

On, for ever on. 
As stately forms were growing, 
As lusty spirits blowing, 
As mighty fancies flowing 

On, for ever on ; 
38G 



MOTHERWELL. 

But there has been leave-taking, 
Sorrow and heart-breaking, 
And a moan, pale Echo's making, 
For the gone, for ever gone ! 

Lovely stars arc gleaming. 
Bearded lights arc streaming, 
And glorious suns are beaming 

On, for ever on. 
As lovely eyes were gleaming, 
As wondrous lights were streaming. 
As glorious minds were beaming 

On, for ever on ; — 
But there has been soul-sundering. 
Wailing, and sad wondering; 
J^^'or graves grow fat with plundering 

The gone, for ever gone! 

We see great eagles soaring, 
We hear deep oceans roaring, 
And sparkling fountains pouring 

On, for ever on. 
As lofty ones were soaring, 
As sonorous voices roaring, 
And as spai-kling wits were pouring 

On, for ever on ; — 
But, pinions have been shedding, 
And voiceless darkness spreading, 
Since a measure Death's been treadinj 

O'er the gone, for ever gone ! 

Every thing is sundering, 

Every one is wondering. 

And this huge globe goes thundering 

On, for ever on. 
But, 'mid this weary sundei-ing, 
Heart-breaking and sad wondering, 
387 



A SOLEMN CONCEIT. 

And this huge globe's rude thundering 

On, for ever on, 
I Avould that I were dreamuig 
Where little Howers are gleaming, 
And the long green grass is streaming 

O'er the gone, for ever gone ! 



388 



TAYLOR. 

ARTEVELDE IN GHENT. 

THE PLATFORM AT THE TOP OF THE STEEPLE OF ST. NICHOLAS' OHOECU.— TIME -UAYUBEAK 

ARTEVELDE (alo)ie). 

HE'here lies a sleeping city. God of dreams! 
(TWTiat au unreal and fantastic world 
^Is going on below ! 
Within the sweep of yon encircling wall, 
How many a large creation of the night, 
Wide wilderness and mountain, rock and sea, 
Peopled with busy transitory groups. 
Finds room to rise, and never feels the crowd ! 
— If when the shows had left the dreamers' eyes 
They should float upward visibly to mine. 
How thick with apparitions were that void! 
But now the blank and blind profundity 
Turns my brain giddy with a sick aversion. 
C — I have not slept. I am to blame for that. 
[Long vigils, join'd with scant and meagre food, 
WMust needs impair that promptitude of mind, 
[And cheerfulness of spirit, which, in him 
IjVho leads a multitude, is past all price. 
I think I could redeem an hour's repose 
Out of the night that I have squander'd, yet. 
The breezes, launch'd upon their early voyage, 
Play with a pleasing freshness on my face. 
I will enfold my cloak about my limbs. 
And lie where I shall front them ;— here, I think. 

[ffe lies down. 
389 



ARTEVELDE IN GHENT. 

If this were over — blessed be the calm 
That comes to me at last! A friend in need 
Is nature to us, that, when all is spent, 
Brings slumber — bountifully — whereupon 
We give her sleepy welcome — if all this 
Were honourably over — Adrianna — 

[Falls asleep, hut starts up almost insianth/. 
I heard a hoofl, a horse's hoof I'll swear, 
Upon the road from Bruges, — or did I dream? 
No! 'lis the gallop of a horse at speed. 

VAN DEN BOSCH {without). 

What ho! Van Artevelde! 

ARTEVELDE. 

Who calls? 
VAN DEN BOSCH {entering). 

'Tis I. 
Thou art an early riser, like myself; 
Or is it that thou hast not been to bed? 

ARTEVELDE. 

Wliat are thy tidings? 

VAN DEN BOSCH. 

Nay, what can they be? 
A page from pestilence and famine's day-book ; 
So many to the pest-house carried in, 
So many to the dead-house carried out. 
The same dull, dismal, damnable old story. 

ARTEVELDE. 

Be quiet ; listen to the westerly wind. 
And tell me if it bring thee nothing new. 

VAN DEN BOSCH. 

Nought to my ear, save howl of hungry dog 
That hears the house is stirring — nothing else. 

ARTEVELDE. 

No,— «-now — I hear it not myself — no — nothing. 
The city's hum is up — but ere you came 
'Twas audible enough. 

390 



TAYLOR. 

VAN DEN BOSCH. 

In God's name what? 

ARTEVELDE. 

A horseman's tramp upon the road from Bruges. 

VAN DEN BOSCII. 

"NVliy, then, be certain 'tis a flag of truce ! 

If once he reach the city we are lost. 

Nay, if he be but seen, our danger's great. 

What terms so bad they would not swallow now? 

Let's send some trusty varlets forth at once 

To cross his way. 

ARTEVELDE. 

And send him back to Bruges? 

VAN DEN BOSCH. 

Send him to hell — and that's a better place. 

ARTEVELDE. 

Nay, softly. Van den Bosch; let war be war. 
But let us keep its ordinances. 

VAN DEN BOSCH. 

Tush ! 
I say, but let them see him from afar. 
And in an hour shall Ave, bound hand and foot. 
Be on our way to Bruges. 

ARTEVELDE. 

Not so, not so ; 
My rule of governance has not been such 
As e'er to issue in so foul a close. 

VAN DEN BOSCH. 

Wliat matter by what rule thou may'st have govern'd? 
Think'st thou a hundred thousand citizens 
Shall stay the fury of their empty maws 
Because thou'st ruled them justly? 

ARTEVELDE. 

It may be 
That such a hope is mine. 
391 




VAN DEN BOSCII. 

Then thou art mad. 
And I must take this matter on myself. [Is goinr/. 

A UTEVELDE. 

I Fold, Van den Bosch ; I say this shall not bo. 
392 



TAYLOR. 

I must be madder than I think I am 
Ere I shall yield up my authority, 
Which I abuse not, to be used by thee. 

VAN DEN BOSCH. 

^ This comes of lifting di-eamers into power. 
I tell thee, in this strait and stress of famine. 
The people, but to pave the way for peace, 
Would instantly despatch our heads to Bruges. 
Once and again I warn thee that thy life 
Hangs by a thread. 

ARTEVELDE. 

Why, know I not it does? 
What hath it hung by else since Utas' eve? 
Did I not by mine own advised choice 
Place it in jeopardy for certain ends? 
And what were these? To prop thy tottering state? 
To float thee o'er a reef, and, that performed. 
To cater for our joint security? 
No, verily ; not such my high ambition. 
I bent my thoughts on yonder city's weal ; 
I looked to give it victory and freedom; 
And working to that end, by consequence 
From one great peril did deliver thee — 
Not for the love of thee or of thy life, 
Which I regard not, but the city's service ; 
And if for that same service it seem good, 
I will expose thy life to equal hazard. 

VAN DEN BOSCH. 

Thou wilt? 

ARTEVELDE. 

I will. 

VAN DEN BOSCH. 

Oh, Lord ! to hear him speak, 
Wliat a most mighty emperor of puppets 
Is this that I have brought upon the board ! 
l>ut how if he that made it should unmake? 
393 



AETEVELDE IN GHENT. 



AKTEVELDE. 



Unto His sovereignty aa^Iio truly made me 

With infinite humility I bow ! 

Both, both of us are puppets, Van clen Bosch; 

Part of the cvirious clock-work of this woi'ld, 

We scold, and squeak, and crack each other's crowns ; 

And if by twitches moved from A\dres we see not, 

I were to toss thee from this steeple's top, 

I should be but the instrument — no more — 

The tool of that chastising Providence 

Which doth exalt the lowly, and abase 

The violent and proud : but let me hope 

There's no such task appointed me to-day. 

Thou passest in the world for worldly Avise : 

Then, seeing we must sink or swim together, ' 

What can it profit thee, in this extreme 

Of our distress, to Avrangle vdth me thus 

For my supremacy and rule? Thy fate, 

As of necessity bound up Avith mine, 

Must needs partake my cares : let that suffice 

To put thy pride to rest till better times. 

Contest — more reasonably Avrong — a prize 

More precious than the ordering of a shipwreck. 

VAN DEN BOSCH. 

Tush, tush. Van ArteAclde ; thou talk'st and talk'st. 
And honest burghers think it wondrous fine. 
But thou might' st easilier with that tongue of thine 
Persuade yon smoke to fly i' tli' face o' the Aviud, 
Than talk aAvay my wit and understanding. 
I say yon herald shall not enter here. 

ARTEA^ELDE. 

I know, sir, no man better, where my talk 
Is serviceable singly, where it needs 
To be by acts enforced. I say, beware. 
And braAC not mine authoi'ity too far. 
'3di 



c 



TAYLOR. 
VAN DEN BOSCH. 

Hast thou authority to take my life ? 
What is it else to let yon herald in 
To bargain for our blood? 

AKTEVELDE. 

Thy life again ! 
"Why, what a very slave of life art thou ! 
Look round about on this once populous town ; 
Not one of these innumerous house-tops 
But hides some spectral form of misery, 
Some peevish, pining child and moaning mother, 
Some aged man that in his dotage scolds. 
Not knowing why he hungers, some cold corse 
That lies unstraightened where the spirit left it. 
Look round, and answer what thy life can be 
To tell for more than dust upon the balance. 
I, too, would live — I have a love for life — 
But rather than to live to charge my soul 
With one hour's lengthening out of woes like these, 
I'd leap this parapet with as free a bound 
As e'er was schoolboy's o'er a garden Avail. 

VAN DEN BOSCH. 

I'd like to see thee do it. 

AKTEVELDE. 

I know thou wouldst ; 
But for the present be content to see 
My less pi-ecipitate descent ; for lo ! 
There comes the herald o'er the hill. 

lExit 

VAN DEN BOSCH. 

Beshrew thee! 
Thou shalt not have the start of me in this. 

[lie foUoivs, and the scene closes. 



395 



ERNESTO. 



ERNESTO. 



Thoughtfully by the side Ernesto sate 

Of her whom, in his earlier youth, with heart 

Then first exulting in a dangerous hope. 

Dearer for danger, he had rashly loved. 

That was a season when the untravell'd spirit. 

Not way-worn nor way-wearied, nor Avith soil 

Nor stain upon it, lions in its path 

Saw none — or seeing, with triumphant trust 

In its resources and its powers, defied — 

Pervei'se to find provocatives in warnings. 

And in disturbance taking deep delight. 

By sea or land he still saw rise the storm 

With a gay courage, and through broken lights, 

Tempestuously exalted, for a while 

His heart ran mountains high, or to the roar 

Of shatter'd forests sang superior songs 

With kindling, and what might have seem'd to some. 

Auspicious energy; — by land and sea 

He was way-founder' d — trampled in the dust 

His many-colour'd hopes — his lading rich 

Of precious pictures, bright imaginations, 

In absolute shipwi'eck to the wind and waves 

Suddenly render' d — 

By her side he sate : 
But time had been between and wov'n a veil 
Of seven years' separation ; and the past 
Was seen with soften'd outlines, like the face 
Of Nature through a mist. What was so seen? 
In a short hour, there sitting with his eyes 
Fix'd on her face, observant though abstracted, 
396 



TAYLOK. 

Lost partly in the past, but mixing still 
With his remembrances the life before him, 
He traced it all — the pleasant first accost. 
Agreeable acquaintance, growing friendship. 
Love, passion at the culminating point 
When in a sleeping body through the night 
The heart would lie awake, reverses next 
Gnawing the mind with doubtfulness, and last 
The aiFectionate bitterness of love refused. 
— Rash had he been by choice — by wanton choice 
Deliberately rash ; but in the soil 
Where grows the bane, grows too the antidote ; 
The same young-heartedness which knew not fear 
Renounced despondency, and brought at need 
With its results, resources. In his day 
Of utter condemnation, thei*e remain'd 
Appeal to that imaginative power 
Which can commute a sentence of sore pain 
For one of softer sadness, which can bathe 
The broken spirit in the balm of tears. 
And more and better to after days; for soon 
Upsprang the mind within him, and he knew 
The affluence and the growth which nature yields 
After an overflow of loving grief. 
Hence did he deem that he could freely draw 
A natural indemnity. The tree 
Sucks kindlier nurture from a soil enrich'd 
By its own fallen leaves ; and man is made 
In heart and spirit fi'om deciduous hopes 
And things that seem to perish. Thro' the stress 
And fever of his suit, from first to last, 
His pride (to call it by no nobler name) 
Had been to love with reason and with truth, 
To carry clear thro' many a turbulent trial 
A perspicacious judgment and true tongue, 
And neither with fair word nor partial thought 
To flatter whom he loved. If pride it was 
397 



ERNESTO. 

To love and not to flatter, by a breath 

Of purer aspiration was he moved 

To suffer and not blame, grieve, not resent ; 

And when all hopes that needs must knit with self 

Their object, were irrevocably gone, 

Cherish a mild commemorative love, 

Such as a mourner might unblamed bestow 

On a departed spirit — 

Once again 
He sate beside her — for the last time now. 
And scarcely was she alter'd ; for the hours 
Had led her lightly down the vale of life, 
Dancing and scattering roses, and her face 
Seem'd a perpetual daybreak, and the woods, 
Where'er she rambled, echoed through their aisles 
The music of a laugh so softly gay 
That spring Avith all her songsters and her songs 
Knew nothing like it. But how changed was he ! 
Care and disease and ardoui's unrepress'd, 
And labours unremitted, and much grief, 
Had written their death-warrant on his brow. 
Of this she saw not all — she saw but little — 
That which she could not choose but see she saw ; 
And o'er her sunlit dimples and her smiles 
A shadow fell — a transitory shade ; 
And when the phantom of a hand she clasped 
At parting scarce responded to her touch. 
She sigh'd — but hoped the best. 

When winter came 
She sigh'd again; — for with it came the word 
That trouble and love had found their place of rest 
And slept beneath Madeira's orange groves. 



398 



MOIR. 



CASA- WAPPY.* 

And hast thou sought thy heavenly home, 

Our fond, dear boy — 
The realms where sorrow dare not come, 

Where life is joy? 
Pure at thy death as at thy birth, 
Thy spirit caught no taint from earth ; 
Even by its bliss Ave mete our death, 

Casa Wappy ! 

Despair was in our last farewell, 

As closed thine eye ; 
Tears of our anguish may not tell 

When thou didst die ; 
Words may not paint our grief for thee, 
Sighs are but bubbles on the sea 
Of our unfathomed agony, 

Casa Wappy! 

Thou wert a vision of delight 

To bless us given ; 
Beauty embodied to our sight, 

A type of heaven : 
So dear to us thou wert, thou ai"t 
Even less thine own self than a part 
Of mine and of thy mother's he^rt, 

Casa AVappy ! 

* Casa Wapp\' was the self-conferred pet-name of an infant son of the poet, 
snatched away after a very brief illness. 

399 



CASA WAl^PV. 

Thy bright brief day knew no decline, 

'Twas cloudless joy ; 
Sunrise and night alone Avere thine 

Beloved boy ! 
This morn beheld thee blithe and gay, 
That found thee prostrate in decay, 
And ere a tliird shone, clay was clay, 

Casa Wappyl 

Gem of our hearth, our household pride. 

Earth's undefiled ; 
Could love have saved, thou hadst not died. 

Our dear, sweet child! 
Humbly we bow to Fate's decree ; 
Yet had we hoped that Time should see 
Thee mourn for us, not us for thee, 

Casa Wappy! 

Do what I may, go where 1 wW\. 

Thou meet'st my sight ; 
There dost thou glide before me still^ — 

A form of light ! 
I feel thy breath upon my cheek — 
I see thee smile, I hear thee speak — 
Till oh ! my heart is like to break, 

Casa Wappy ! 



Methinks thou smil'st before me now. 

With glance of stealth ; 
The hair thrown back from thy full broAA' 

In buoyant health : 
1 see thine eye's deep violet light. 
Thy dimpled cheek carnationed bright, 
Thy clasping arms so round and white, 

Casa Wappy ! 
400 



MOIR. 

Tlie nursery shows thy pictured \y;\]\. 

Thy bat, thy bow, 
rhy cloak and bonnet, club and ball ; 

But Avhere art thou? 
A corner holds thine empty chair, 
Thy playthings idly scattered there, 
r>nt speak to us of our despair, 

Casa Wappy! 

Even to the last thy every word — 

To glad, to grieve — 
Was sweet as sweetest song of bird 

On summer's eve ; 
In outward beauty undecayed, 
Death o'er thy spirit cast no shade. 
And like the rainbow thou didst fade, 

Casa Wappy ! 

We mourn for thee when blind blank night 

The chamber fills ; 
We pine for thee when morn's first liglit 

Reddens the hills : 
The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea, 
All, to the wall-flower and wild pea, 
Are changed — we saw the world through thee, 

Casa Wappy ! 

And tliough, perchance, a smile may gleam 

Of casual mirth, 
It doth not own, Avhate'er may seem. 

An inward birth : 
We miss thy small step on the stair; 
We miss thee at thine evening prayer! 
All day we miss thee, everywhere, 

Casa Wappy! 
401 c 



CASA WAPPY. 

Snows muffled earth Avheii thou didst go. 

In life's spring bloom, 
Down to the appointed house below, 

The silent tomb. 
But now the green leaves of the tree, 
The cuckoo and " the busy bee" 
Return — but with them bring not thee, 

Casa Wappy! 

'Tis so ; but can it be (while flowers 

Revive again) 
Man's doom, in death that Ave and ours 

For aye remain? 
Oh ! can it be, that o'er the grave 
The grass renewed, should yearly wave. 
Yet God forget our child to save? — 

Casa Wappy ! 

It cannot be : for were it so 

Thus man could die, 
Life were a mockery. Thought were woe. 

And Truth a lie ; 
Heaven were a coinage of the brain, 
Religion frenzy, Virtue vain, 
And all our hopes to meet again, 

Casa Wai^p}' ! 

Then be to us, O dear, lost child ! 

Witli beam of love, 
A star, death's uncongenial wild 

Smiling above ; 
Soon, soon thy little feet have trod 
The skyward path, the seraph's road. 
That led thee back from man to God, 

Casa Wappy ! 
402 



MOIR. 

Yet 'tis sweet balm to our despair. 

Fond, fairest boy, 
That heaven is God's, and thou art there, 

With him in joy : 
There past are death and all its woes. 
There beauty's stream forever flows. 
And pleasure's day no sunset knows, 

Casa Wapp}- ! 

F'arewell, then — for a Avhile, farewell — 

Pride of my heart! 
It cannot be that long we dwell, 

Thus torn apart: 
Time's shadows like the shuttle flee: 
And, dark howe'er life's night may be, 
Beyond the grave I'll meet with thee, 

Casa Wappy! 



408 




TRENCH. 

THE SPILT PEARLS. 

His courtiers of the Caliph crave, — 
" Oh, say how this may be, 

That of thy slaves, this Ethio]i slave 
Is best beloved by thee? 

•' For he is ugly as the Night ; 

l>ut when has ever chose 
A nightingale, for its delight, 

A hueless, scentless rose?" 

The Caliph, then: — "No features fair, 

Nor comely mien, are his ; 
Love is the beauty he doth woar, 

And Love his glory is. 



"When once a camel of my train 
There fell in narrow street. 

From broken casket roll'd amaiu 
Rich pearls before my feet. 
404 



TRENCH. 

" I winking to the slaves that I 
Would freely give them these, 

At once upon the spoil they fly, 
The costly boon to seize. 

" One only at my side remained — 

Beside this Ethiop none : 
lie, moveless as the steed he reined. 

Behind me sat alone. 

" ' What will thy gain, good fellow, be, 
Thus lingering at my side?' 

" My king, that I shall faithfully 
Have guarded thee,' he cried. 

" True servant's title he may wear 
He only who has not, ' 

For his Lord's gifts, how rich soe'er. 
His Lord himself forgot." 

So thou alone dost walk before 
Thy God with perfect aim, 

From Him desiring nothing more 
Beside Himself to claim. 

For if thou not to Him aspire, 

But to His gifts alone, 
Not Love, but covetous desire. 

Has brought thee to His throne. 

\Vhile such thy prayer, it climbs above 

In vain — the golden key 
Of God's rich treasure-house of love, 

Thine own will never be 



40.'; 



EMERSON. 

THE HUMBLE-BEE. 

Burly, dozing, humble-bee, 
Where thou art is clime for me. 
Let them sail for Porto Eique, 
Far-off heats through seas to seek ; 
I will follow thee alone, 
Thou animated torrid zone ! 
Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer, 
Let me chase thy waving lines ; 
Keep me nearer, me thy hearer, 
Singing over shrubs and vines. 

Insect lover of the sun, 
Joy of thy dominion ! 
Sailor of the atmosphere ; 
Swimmer through the waves of air ; 
Voyager of light and noon ; 
Epicurean of June ; 
Wait, I prithee, till I come 
Within earshot of thy hum, — 
All Avithout is martyrdom. 

When the south wind, in May days, 

With a net of shining haze 

Silvers the horizon wall, 

And, with softness touching all, 

Tints the human covintenance 

With a colour of romance. 

And, infusing subtle heats, 

Turns the sod to violets. 

Thou, in sunny solitudes. 

Rover of the imderwoods, 

40(; 



EMERSON. 

The green silence dost displace 
With thy mellow, breezy bass. 

Hot midsummer's petted crone, 
Sweet to me thy drowsy tone 
Tells of countless sunny hours, 
Long days, and solid banks of flowers ; 
Of gulfs of sweetness without bound 
In Indian wildernesses found ; 
Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure, 
Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure. 

Aught unsavoury or unclean 
Hath my insect never seen ; 
But violets and bUberry bells. 
Maple-sap, and daffodels, 
Grass with green flag half-mast high, 
Succory to match the sky. 
Columbine with horn of honey, 
Scented fern and agrimony. 
Clover, catch-fly, adder' s-tongue, 
And brier roses, dwelt among ; 
All beside was unknown Avaste, 
All was picture as he passed. ■ 

Wiser far than human seer, 
Yellow-breeched philosopher ! 

(Seeing only what is fair. 
Sipping only Avhat is sweet, 
Thou dost mock at fate and care, 
Leave the chaff, and take the wheat. 
When the fierce north-western blast 
Cools sea and land so far and fast, 
Thou already slumberest deep; 
Woe and want thou canst outsleep; 
Want and woe, which torture us, 
Thy sleep makes ridiculous. 
407 



HOFFMANN. 

SPARKLING AND BRIGHT. 

Spahkling and bright in liqnid light. 

Does the Avine our goblets gleam in, 
With hue as red as the rosy bed 

Which a bee would choose to dream in. 
Then fill to-night with hearts as liglit. 

To loves as gay and fleeting 
As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim. 
And break on the lips Avhile meeting. 

Oh ! if Mirth might arrest the flight 
Of Time through Life's dominions, 
We here awhile would now beguile 
The grey-beard of his pinions 

To drink to-night with hearts as light. 

To loves as gay and fleeting 
As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim. 
And break on the lips while meeting. 

But since delight can't tempt the wight. 

Nor fond regret delay him, 
Nor Love himself can hold the elf, 
Nor sober Friendship stay him, 

We'll drink to-night with hearts as liglit. 

To loves as gay and fleeting 
As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim. 
And break on the lips while meeting. 



408 



MORRIS. 

WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE. 

Woodman, spare that tree! 

Touch not a suigle bough ! 
Li youth it sheltered me, 

And I'll protect it now. 
'Twas my forefather's hand 

That placed it near his cot; 
There, woodman, let it stand, 

Thy axe shall harm it not! 

That old familiar tree. 

Whose glory and renown 
Are spread o'er land and sea, 

And wouldst thou hew it down? 
Woodman, forbear thy stroke ! 

Cut not its earth-bound ties ; 
Oh, spare that aged oak. 

Now towering to the skies ! 

When but an idle boy 

I sought its grateful shade ; 
In all their gushing joy 

Here too my sisters played. 
My mother kissed me here ; 

My father pressed my hand — 
Forgive this foolish tear. 

But let that old oak stand ! 

My heart-strings round thee cling, 
Close as thy bark, old friend ! 

Here shall the wild-bird sing. 
And still thy branches bend. 

too 



POETEY. 

Old tree! the storm still brave! 

And woodman, leave the spot; 
While I've a hand to save, 

Thy axe shall harm it not. 



POETRY. 



To me the world's an open book, 

Of sweet and pleasant poetry ; 
I read it in the running brook 

That sings its way towards the sea. 
It whispers in the leaves of trees, 

The swelling grain, the waving grass. 
And in the cool, fresh evening breeze 

That crisps the wavelets as they pass. 

The flowers below, the stars above, 

In all their bloom and brightness given, 

Are, like the attributes of love, 
The poetry of earth and heaven. 

(Thus Nature's volume, read aright, 
V Attunes the soul to minstrelsy, 
Tinging life's clouds with rosy light. 
And all the world with poetry. 



410 



.ia??^3wS^^|^ 



"r" 



4» 







HOYT. 



SNOW— A WINTER SKETCH. 



The blessed morn has come again ; 

The early gray 
Taps at the slumberer's window pane, 

And seems to say 
Break, break from the enchanter's chain. 

Away, away! 

411 



SNOW— A WINTER SKETCH. 

'Tis winter, yet there is no souiitl 

Along the air, 
Of Avinds upon their battle-ground, 

But gently there, 
The snow is foiling, — all around 

How fair — how fair ! 



The jocund lields would masquerade ; 

Fantastic scene ! 
Tree, shrub, and lawn, and lonely gladr 

Have cast their green, 
And joined the revel, all arrayed 

So white and clean. 



E'en the old posts, that hold the bars 

And the old gate. 
Forgetful of their wintry wars. 

And age sedate. 
High capped, and plumed, like white hussar 

Stand there in state. 



The drifts are hanging by the sill. 

The eaves, the door ; 
The hay-stack has become a hill ; 

AH covered o'er 
The waggon, loaded foi- the mill 

The eve before. 



Maria brings the watcr-pail. 

But Avhere's the well ! 
Like magic of a fairy tale, 

Most strange to tell, 
All vanished, curb, and crank, and rail 

How deej) it fell ! 

tl2 



HOYT. 

Tlie ^^•ood-pile, loo, is playing liicle ; 

The axe, the log. 
The kennel of that friend so tried, 

(The old watch-dog,) 
The grindstone standing by its side, 

All now incog. 



The bnstling cock looks out aghast 

From his high shed ; 
No spot to scratch him a repast 

Up curves his head. 
Starts the dull hamlet with a. blast, 

And back to bed. 



Old drowsy dobbin, at the call. 

Amazed, awakes ; 
Out from the window of his stall 

A view he takes ; 
While thick and foster seem to fall 

The silent flakes. 



The barn-yard gentry, musing, chime 

Their morning moan ; 
Like jNIemnon's music of old time 

That voice of stone ! 
So marbled they — and so sublime 

Their solemn tone. 



(iood Ruth has called the younker folk 

To dress below ; 
Full Avelcome was the A^'ord she spoke, 

DoAvn, down they go, 
The cottage quietude is broke. — 

The snow ! — the snow ! 
4i;'. 



SNOW— A WINTER SKETCH. 

Now rises from around the fire 

A pleasant strain; 
Ye giddy sons of mirth, retire ! 

And ye profane! 
A hymn to the Eternal Sire 

Goes up again. 



The patriarchal Book divine, 

Upon the knee,. 
Opes where the gems of Judah shine. 

(SAveet minstrelsie !) 
How soars each heart with each fair line, 

Oh God, to Thee ! 



Around the altar low they bend. 

Devout in prayer ; 
As snows upon the roof descend. 

So angels there 
Come down that household to defend 

With gentle care. 



Now sings the kettle o'er the blaze ; 

The buckwheat heaps ; 
Rare Mocha, worth an Arab's praise. 

Sweet Susan steeps ; 
The old round stand her nod obeys, 

And out it leaps. 



Unerring presages declare 

The banquet near ; 
Soon busy appetites are there : 

And disappear 
The glories of the amj^jle fare, 

With thanks sincere. 
414 



HOYT. 

Now tiny snow-birds venture nigh 

From copse and spray, 
(Sweet strangers! with the winter's sky 

To pass away ;) 
And gather crumbs in full supply, 

For all the day. 



Let now the busy hours begin : 

Out rolls the churn ; 
Forth hastes the farm-boy, and brings in 

The brush to burn ; 
Sweep, shovel, scour, sew, knit, and sjnn. 

'Till night's return. 



To delve his threshing John must hie ; 

His sturdy shoe 
Can all the subtle damp defy ; 

HoAV wades he through ! 
While dainty milkmaids slow and shy, 

His track pursue. 

Each to the hour's allotted care ; 

To shell the corn ; 
The broken harness to repair ; 

The sleigh t' adorn ; 
As cheerful, tranquil, frosty, fair. 

Speeds on the morn. 



While mounts the eddying smoke amain 

From many a hearth. 
And all the landscape rings again 

With rustic mirth ; 
So gladsome seems to every swain 

The snowy earth. 

415 




SIMMS. 



BLESSINGS ON CHILDREN. 



Blessings on the blessing children, sweetest gifts of Heaven to eartli 
Filling all the heart A\ith gladness, filling all the house with mirth ; 
Bringing Avith them native sweetness, pictures of the primal bloom 
A^Hiich the bliss for ever gladdens, of the region whence they come ; 
Bringing with them joyous impulse of a state withouten care. 
And a buoyant faith in being, which makes all in nature fair ; 
Not a doubt to dim the distance, not a grief to vex the nigli, 
And a hope that in existence, finds each hour a luxury; 

416 



SIMMS. 

Going singing, bounding, brightening — never fearing as tliey go, 
That the innocent shall tremble, and the loving find a foe ; 
In the daylight, in the starlight, still with thought that freely flies. 
Prompt and joyous, with no question of the beauty in the skies ; 
Genial fancies winning raptures, as the bee still sucks her store, 
All the present still a garden glean'd a thousand times before ; 
All the future, but a region, where the happy serving thought, 
Still depicts a thousand blessings, by the winged hunter caught ; 
Life a chase where blushing pleasures only seem to strive in flight, 
Lingering to be caught, and yielding gladly to the proud delight ; 
As the maiden, through the alleys, looking backward as she flies, 
Woos the fond pursuer onward, with the love-light in her eyes. 
Oh ! the happy life in children, still restoring joy to ours, 
Making for the forest music, planting for the wayside flowers; 
Back recalling all the sweetness, in a pleasvu*e pure as rare, 
Back the past of ho})e and rapture bringing to the heart of care. 
How, as swell the happy voices, bursting through the shady grove, 
Memories take the place of sorrows, time restores the sway to love ! 
We are in the shouting comrades, shaking off the load of years, 
Thought forgetting, strifes and trials, doubts and agonies and tears ; 
We are in the bounding urchin, as o'er hill and plain he darts. 
Share the struggle and the triumph, gladdening in his heart of hearts 
What an image of the vigour and the glorious grace we knew, 
When to eager youth from boyhood, at a single bound Ave grew ! 
Even such our slender beauty, such upon our cheek the glow, 
In our eyes the life and gladness — of our blood the overflow. 
Bless the mother of the urchin ! in his form we see her truth : 
He is now the very picture of the memories in our youth ; 
Never can we doubt the forehead, nor the sunny flowing hair, 
Xor the smiling in the dimple speaking chin and cheek so fair : 
Bless the mother of the young one ! he hath blended in his grace, 
.Ul the hope and joy and beauty, kindling once in either face ! 

Oh ! the happy faith of children ! that is glad in all it sees. 
And with never need of thinking, pierces still its mysteries ; 
In simplicity profoundest, in their soul abundance blest, 
Wise in value of the sportive, and in restlessness at rest : 

417 1)1) 



BLESSINGS ON CHILDREN. 

Lacking every creed yet having faith so Large in all they see. 
That to know is still to gladden, and 'tis rapture but to be. 
"Wliat trim fancies bring them flowers ; what rare spirits walk their wood. 
What a wondrous world the moonlight harbours of the gay and good ! 
Unto them the very tempest walks in glories grateful still, 
And the lightning gleams, a seraph, to persuade them to the hill ; 
'Tis a sweet and loving spirit, that throughout the midnight rains, 
Broods beside the shutter'd windows, and with gentle love complains r, 
And how wooing, how exalting, with the richness of her dyes, 
Spans the painter of the rainbow, her bright arch along the skies. 
With a dream like Jacob's ladder, showing to the fancy's sight, 
How 'twere easy for the sad one to escape to worlds of light ! 
Ah ! the wisdom of such fancies, and the truth in every dream. 
That to faith confiding offers, cheering every gloom, a gleam ! 
Happy hearts, still cherish fondly each delusion of your youth, 
Joy is bom of well believing, and the fiction wraps the truth. 



418 



WILLIS. 



UNSEEN SPIRITS. 

The shadows lay along Broadway — 
'Twas near the twilight-tide — 

And slowly there a lady fair 
Was Avalking in her pride. 

Alone walked she ; but, viewlessly, 
Walked spirits at her side. 

Peace charmed the street beneath her feet. 

And Honour charmed the air ; 
And all astir looked kind on her, 

And called her good as fair — 
For all God ever gave to her 

She kept with chary care. 

She kept with care her beauties rare 
From lovers warm and true — 

For her heart was cold to all but gold. 
And the rich came not to woo — 

But honoured well are charms to sell 
If priests the selling do. 

Now A^'alking there was one more fair — 

A slight girl, lily-pale; 
And slie had unseen company 

To make the spirit quail — 
'Twixt Want and Scorn she walked forlorn. 

And nothing could avail. 
419 



LITTLE FLOKENCE GRAY. 

No mercy now can clear her brow 
For this world's peace to pray; 

For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air, 
Her woman's heart gave way ! — 

But the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven 
By man is curst alway! 



C 



LITTLE FLORENCE GRAY 



I WAS in Greece. It was the hour of noon, 

.Vnd the --iEgean wind had dropped asleep 

Upon Hymettus, and the thymy isles 

Of Salamis and -.Fgina lay hung 

Like clouds upon the bright and breathless sea. 

I had climbed up th' Acropolis at morn, 

And hours had fled as time will in a dream 

Amid its deathless ruins-T'-for the air 
/is full of spirits inTKese mighty fanes, 
\^And they walk with you! ^ As it sultrier grew, 

I laid me down within a shadow deep 

Of a tall column of the Parthenon, 

And in an absent idleness of thought 

I scrawled upon the smooth and marble base. 

Tell me, O memory, what wrote I there ? 

The name of a sweet child I knew at Rome .' 

I was in Asia. 'Twas a peerless night 
Upon the plains of Sardis, and the moon, 
Touching my eyelids through the wind-stin cd tent, 
Had Avitched me from my slumber. I arose, 
And silently stole forth, and by the briid^ 
420 



WILLIS. 

Of golden "Pactolus," where bathe his water? 
The bases of Cybele's columns fan*, 
I paced away the hours. In wakeful mood 
I mused upon the storied past awhile, 
Watching the moon, that with the same mild eye 
Had looked upon the mighty Lybian kings 
Sleeping around me — Croesus, Avho had heaped 
AVithin the mouldering portico his gold, 
And Gyges, buried with his viewless ring 
Beneath yon swelling tumulus — and then 
I loitered up the valley to a small 
And humbler ruin, where the undefiled* 
Of the Apocalypse their garments kept 
Spotless; and crossing Tvith a conscious awe 
The broken threshold, to my spirit's eye 
It seemed as if, amid the moonlight, stood 
"The angel of the church of Sardis" still! 
And I again passed onward, and as dawn 
Paled the bright morning star, I lay me down, 
Weary and sad, beside the river's brink, 
And 'twixt the moonlight and the rosy morn. 
Wrote ^^^th my fingers in the golden "sands." 
VTell me, O memory ! what -UTOte I there ? 
The name of the sweet child I hneio at Rome ! 



The dust is old vipon my " sandal-shoon," 
/And still I am a ijiigrim;Vl have roved 
/ KrQm--wild_-Ajn©Fiear-t0-^picy Ind;^ 
v And worshipped at innumerable shrines) 
Of beauty, and the painter's art, to me. 
And sculpture, speak as with a living tongue, 
And of dead kingdoms, I recall the soul. 
Sitting amid their ruins. \J. have stored 

* " Thou hast a few names even in Sardis which have not defiled tlioir gar- 
ments; and they shall walk with me iu white; for they are worthy." — Kkv. 
iii. 4. 

421 



LITTLE FLORENCE GRAY. 

My memory with thoughts that can allay 
Fever and sadness ; and when life gets dim, 
And I am overladen in my years, 
JMinister to nie^ But when wearily 
The mind gives over toiling, and, with eyes 
Open but seeing not, and senses all 
Lying awake within their chambers fine. 
Thought settles like a fountain, clear and calm- 
Far in its sleeping depths, as 'twere a gem. 
Tell me, O memory ! what shines so fair ? 
The face of the sweet child I Jcneto at Home ! 



422 



ALFORD. 

HYMN TO THE SEA. 

Who shall declare the secret of thy birth, 
Thou old companion of the circling earth? 
And having marked with keen poetic sight 

Ere beast or happy bird 

Through the vast silence stirred, 
Koll back the folded darkness of the primal night 1 

Corruption-like, thou teemedst in the graves 
Of mouldering systems, with dark weltering waves 
Troubling the peace of the first mother's womb ; 

AVliose ancient awful form. 

With inly tossing storm, 
Unquiet hcavings kept — a birth-place and a tomb. 

Till the life-giving Spirit moved above 
The foce of the waters, Avith creative love 
Warming the hidden seeds of infant light : 

What time the mighty Word 

Through thine abyss was heard, 
And swam from out thy deeps the young day heavenly bright. 

Thou and the earth, twin-sisters, as they say. 
In the old prime were fashioned in the day. 
And thei'cfore thou dclightest evermore 

With her to lie, and play 

The summer hours away, 
Curling thy loving ripples up her quiet shore. 

She is married, a matron long ago, 
AVith nations at her side ; her milk doth flow 

423 




Each year ; but thee no husband dares to tame ; 
Thy Avikl -will is thine own, 
Tliy sole and virgin throne — 
Thy mood is ever changing — thy resolve the same. 



Sunlight and moonlight minister to l^hee ; — 
O'er the broad circle of the shoreless sea 

Heaven's two great lights for ever set and rise; 
While the round vault above, 
In vast and silent love, ' 

Is gazing dowTi upon thee with his hundred eyes. 
424 



ALFORD. 

All night thou utterest forth thy solemn moan, 
Counting thj weary minutes all alone ; 

Then in the morning thou dost calmly lie, 

Deep blue, ere yet the sun 

His day-work hath begun, 
Under the opening windows of the golden sky. 

The spirit of the mountain looks on thee 
Over an hundred hills ; quaint shadows flee 
Across thy marbled mirror ; brooding lie 
Storm-mists of infant cloud, 
With a sight-baffling shroud 
Mantling the grey-blue islands in the western sky. 

Sometimes thou liftest up thine hands on high 
Into the tempest-cloud that blurs the sky, 
Holding rough dalliance with the fitful blast, 

Whose stiff breath, Avhistling shrill, 

Pierces with deadly chill 
The wet crew feebly clinging to their shattered mast. 

Foam-white along the border of the shore 
Thine onward-leaping billows plunge and roar ; 
While o'er the pebbly ridges slowly glide 

Cloaked figures, dim and grey. 

Through the tliick mist of spray, 
Watching for some struck vessel in the boiling tide. 

Daughter and darling of i-emotest eld — 
Time's childhood and Time's age thou hast beheld ; 
His arm is feeble and his eye is dim — 

He tells old tales again — 

He wearies of long pain ; — 
Thou art as at the first : thou journeyedst not with him. 



425 



THACKERAY. 
THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE. 

A STREET there is in Paris famous, 

For which no rhyme our language yieldi- 
Rue Neuve des Petits Champs its name is- 

The New Street of the Little Fields ; 
And here's an inn, not rich and splendid, 

But still in comfortable case ; 
The which in youth I oft attended, 

To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse. 

This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is — 

A sort of soup, or broth, or brew, 
Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes, 

That Greenwich never could outdo; 
Green herbs, red peppers, muscles, safFern, 

Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace ; 
All these you eat at Terke's tavern, 

In that one dish of Bouillabaisse. 



Indeed, a rich and savoury stew 'tis ; 
XAnd true philosophers, methinks, 
[Who love all sorts of natural beauties, 
\v Should love good victuals and good drinks. 
And Cordelier or Benedictine 

Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace. 
Nor find a fast-day too afflicting. 

Which scr^^ed him up a Bouillabaisse. 
42G 



THACKERAY. 

1 wonder il* the house still there is ? 

Yes, here the lamp is, as before ; 
The smiling, red-cheeked ecaillere is 

Still opening oysters at the door. 
Is Tekre still alive and able? 

I recollect his droll grimace ; 
He'd come and smile before your table, 

And hoped you liked your Bouillabaisse. 

We enter; nothing's changed or older. 

"How's Monsieur Teere, waiter, pray?" 
The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder ; — 

" Monsieur is dead this many a day." 
"It is the lot of saint and sinner. 

So honest Terre's run his race ?" 
"What will Monsieur require for dinner?" 

" Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse ?" 

" Oh, oui, Monsieur," 's the waiter's answer ; 

" Quel vin Monsieur desire-t-il ?" 
" Tell me a good one." " That I can, sir ; 

The Chambertin with yellow seal." 
" So Terre's' gone," I say, and sink in 

My old accustomed corner-place ; 
" He's done Avith feasting and with drinking, 

With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse." 

My old accustomed corner here is. 

The table still is in the nook ; 
Ah ! vanished many a busy year is. 

This well-known chau- since last I took. 
When first I saw ye, Cari luoghi, 

I'd scarce a beard upon my face, 
Ajid now a grizzled, grim old fogy, 

I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse. 
427 



THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE. 

Where are you, old companions trusty 

Of early days, here met to dine ? 
Come, waiter! quick, a flagon crusty — 

I'll pledge them in the good old wine. 
The kind old voices and old faces 

My memory can quick retrace ; 
Around the board they take their places, 

And share the Avine and Bouillabaisse. 



There's Jack has made a wondrous marriage ; 

There's laughing Tom is laughing yet ; 
There's brave Augustus drives his carriage ; 

There's poor old Fred in the Gazette ; 
On James's head the grass is growing : 

Good Lord ! The world has wagged ajiace 
Since here we set the Claret flomng, 

And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse. 

Ah me ! how quick the days are flitting ! 

I mind me of a time that's gone, 
AVhen here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting, 

In this same place — but not alone. 
A fair young form was nestled near me, 

A dear, dear face looked fondly up. 
And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me 

— There's no one now to share my cup. 

* « » * * 

I drink it as the Fates ordain it. 

Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes ; 
Fill up the lonely glass, and drain it 

In memory of dear old times. 
Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is ; 

And sit you down and say your grace 
With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is. 

— Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse. 
428 



THACKERAY. 



THE END OF THE PLAY. 

The play is done ; the curtain drops, 

Slow falling to the prouiptei''s bell : 
A moment yet the actor stojis, 

And looks around to say farewell. 
It is an irksome word and task ; 

And, when he's laughed and said his say, 
He shows, as he removes the mask, 

A face that's any thing but gay. 

One word, ere yet the evening ends. 

Let's close it with a parting rhyme, 
And pledge a hand to all young friends, 

As fits the merry Christmas time. 
On life's wide scene you, too, have parts. 

That Fate ere long shall bid you plaj- ; 
Good-night! Avitli honest gentle hearts 

A kindly greeting go alway! 

Good-night ! — I'd say, the griefs, the joys, ^ 

Just hinted in this mimic page, 
The triumphs and defeats of boys. 

Are but repeated in our age. 
I'd say, your woes were not less keen. 

Your hopes more vain tlian those of men : 
Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen 

At forty-five played o'er again. 

I'd say we suffer and we strive, 

Not less nor more as men than boys ; 

With grizzled beards at forty-five. 
As erst at twelve in corduroys, 
429 



THE END OF THE PLAY. 

And if in time of sacred youth, 

We learned at home to love and pray, 

Pray Heaven that early Love and Truth 
May never wholly pass away. 

And in the world, as in the school, 

I'd say, how fate may change and shift ; 
The prize be sometimes with the fool. 

The race not always to the swift. 
The strong may yield, the good may fall, 

The great man be a vulgar clown, 
The knave be lifted over all. 

The kind cast pitilessly down. 

Who knows the inscrutable design? 

Blessed be He who took and gave I 
Why should your mother, Charles, not mine. 

Be weeping at her darling's grave? 
We bow to Heaven that willed it so. 

That darkly rules the fate of all, 
That sends the respite or the blow, 

That's free to give or to recall. 

This crowns his feast with wine and wit: 

Who brought him to that mirth and state? 
His betters, see, below him sit. 

Or hunger hopeless at the gate. 
Who bade the mud from Dives' wheel 

To spurn the rags of Lazarus? 
Come, brother, in that dust we'll kneol. 

Confessing Heaven that ruled it thus. 

So each shall mourn, in life's advance. 
Dear hopes, dear friends, untimely killed ; 

Shall grieve for many a forfeit chance, 
And longing passion unfulfilled. 
430 



THACKERAY. 

Amen! whatever fate be sent, 

Pray God the heart may kindly glow. 

Although the head with cares be bent, 
And whitened with the winter snow. 

Come wealth or want, come good or ill, 

Let young and old accept their part. 
And bow before the Awful Will, 

And bear it with an honest heart. 
Who misses, or who wins the prize? 

Go, lose or conquer as you can : 
But if you fail, or if you rise. 

Be each, pray God, a gentleman. 

A gentleman, or old or young ! 

(Bear kindly with my humble lays ;) 
The sacred chorus first was sung 

Upon the first of Christmas days : 
The shepherds heard it overhead — 

The joyful angels raised it then : 
Glory to Heaven on high, it said, 

And peace on earth to gentle men. 

iMy song, save this, is little worth ; 

I lay the weary pen aside, 
And wish you health, and love, and mirth, 

As fits the solemn Christmas-tide. 
As fits the holy Christmas birth. 

Be this, good friends, our carol still — 
Be peace on earth, be peace on earth. 

To men of gentle will. 



431 




TENNYSON. 



THE MAY QUEEN.-. 



Yov must wake and call mc early, call nie early, mother dear ; 

To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year ; 

Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest merriest day ; 

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the Mi\\. 

There's many a black black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine : 

There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and Caroline : 

But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they say, 

So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake, 
If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break : 
But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay, 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

432 



TENNYSON. 

As I came up the valley, whom think ye should I see, 

But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree ? 

He thought of that sharp look, mother, 1 gave him yesterday, — 

But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white. 

And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light. 

They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say. 

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

They say he's dying all for love, but that can never be : 

They say his heart is breaking, mother, — what is that to me '? 

There's many a bolder lad 'ill woo me any summer day. 

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the INIay. 

Little Effie shall go "with me to-morrow to the green. 

And you'll be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen ; 

For the shepherd-lads on every side 'ill come from far away. 

And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the JVIay. 

The honeysuckle round the porch has wov'n its wavy bowers, 
And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers; 
And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray, 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the INIay. 

The night-Avinds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass, 
And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass ; 
There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the live-long day. 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the INIay. 

All the valley, mother, 'ill be fresh and green and still. 

And the cowslip and the crowfoot are o\'er all the hill, 

And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'ill merrily glance and play. 

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear. 
To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year ; 
To-morrow 'ill be of all the year the maddest merriest day. 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

433 E K 




NEW-YEARS EVE. 



It' you're waking call me early, call me early, mother dear, 

For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year : 

It is the last New-year that I shall ever see, 

Then you may lay me low i' the mould, and think no more of mr 

I'o-night I i^aw the sun set : he set and left behind 
'I'he good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind ; 
And the New-year's coming up, mother, but I shall never see 
The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree. 

l^ast May we made a crown of flowers; we had a merry day: 
Beneath the hawthorn on the Green they made me Queen of May : 
And we danced about the May-pole and in the hazel copse. 
Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops. 

There's not a flower on all the hills : the frost is on the pane : 
I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again : 
I wish the snow Avould melt, and the sun come out on high : 
I long to see a flower so before the day I die. 

The building rook 'ill caw from the windy tall elm-tree. 
And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea, 
And the swallow 'ill come back again with summer o'er the wave,- 
But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave. 

4.34 



TENNYSON. 

Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine, 
In the early early morning the summer sun 'ill shine, 
Before the red cock crows from the barn upon the hill, 
When you are warm asleep, mother, and all the world is still. 

When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning^ light 
You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night; 
When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool 
On the oat-grass and the sword-gi-ass, and the bulrush in the pool. 

You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade. 
And you'll come sometimes and see me whei-e I am lowly laid. 
I shall not forget you, mother; I shall hear you Avhen you pass, 
With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant gi-ass. 

I have been wild and Avayward, but you'll forgive me now; 
You'll kiss me, my own mother, upon my cheek and broAV ; 
Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild. 
You should not fret for me, mother, — you have another child. 

If I can I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place ; 
Though you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face; 
Though I cannot speak a Avoi-d, I shall hearken what you say, 
And be often, often with you, when you think I'm far away. 

Good-night, good-night, when I have said good-night for evermore, 
And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door; 
Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green : 
She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been. 

She'll find my garden-tools upon the granary floor: 
Let her take 'em : they are hers : I shall never garden more : 
But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rose-bush that I set 
About the parlour-window and the box of mignonette. 

Good-night, sweet mother: call me before the day is bom. 
All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn ; 
But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year, 
So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear. 

435 




CONCLUSION. 



] thought to pass away before, and yet alive I am ; 

And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamb. 

How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year! 

To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet's here. 

() sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies, 
And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot rise. 
And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow, 
And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go. 

It seemed so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun, 
And now it seems as hard to stay, and yet His will be done ! 
But still I think it can't be long before I find release; 
And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace. 

O blessings on his kindly voice, and on his silver hair! 
And blessings on his whole life long, until he- meet me there ! 
blessings on his kindly heart, and on his silver head ! 
A thousand times I blest liim, as he knelt beside my bed. 

436 



TENNYSON. 

lie show'd mo all the mercy, for he taught me all the sin : 
Now, though my lamp was lighted late, thei-e's One will let me in 
Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that could be. 
For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me. 

I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat, 
There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet: 
liut sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine. 
And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign. 

All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call ; 
It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all ; 
The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll. 
And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul. 

For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear ; 
I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here ; 
With all my strength I prayed for both, and so I felt resigned, 
And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind. 

I thought that it was fancy, and I listen'd in my bed. 
And then did something speak to me — I know not what was said ; 
For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind. 
And up the valley came again the music on the wind. 

Rut you Avcre sleeping; and I said, "It's not for them: it's mine.' 
And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign. 
And once again it came, and close beside the Avindow-bars, 
Then seem'd to go right up to Heaven, and die among the stars. 

So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I knoAv 
The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go. 
And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day. 
IJut, Effie, you must comfort licr when I am past away. 

And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret ; 
There's many worthier than I, would make him happy yet. 
If I had lived — I cannot tell — I might have been his wife ; 
l^ut all these things have ceased to be, Avith my desire of life. 

437 



THE RIAY QUEEN. 

O look ! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow ; 

He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know. 

And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine — 

Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine. 

( ) sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done 

The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun — 

For ever and for ever with those just souls and true — ^ 

And what is life, that we should moan '? why make we such ado ? 

For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home — 

And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come ; 

To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast — 

And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. 




438 




MORTE D'ARTHUR. 



So all day long the noise of lialtlc roU'd 
Among the mountains by the winter ?ea; 
439 



MORTE D' ARTHUR. 

Until King Arthur's table, man by man, 

Had fall'n in Lyonness about their Lord, 

King Arthur: then, because his wound was deep, 

The bold ISir Bedivere uplifted him, 

Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights, 

And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, 

A broken chancel with a broken cross. 

That stood on a dark strait of barren land. 

On one side lay the Ocean, and on one 

Lay a great water, and the moon was full. 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere : 
"The sequel of to-day unsolders all 
The goodliest fellowship of famous knights 
Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep 
They sleep — the men I loved. I think that we 
Shall never more, at any future time. 
Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds, 
Walking about the gardens arnd the halls 
Of Camelot, as in the days that were. 
I perish by this people which I made, — 
Tho' Merlin sware that I should come again 
To rule once more — but let what will be, be, 
I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm 
That without help I cannot last till mom. 
Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur, 
Which was my pride : for thou rememberest how 
In those old days, one summer noon, an arm 
Hose up from out the bosom of the lake. 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful. 
Holding the sword — and how I row'd across 
And took it, and have worn it, like a king: 
And, wheresoever I am sung or told 
In aftertime, this also shall be known : 
But now delay not: take Excalibur, 
And fling him far into the middle mere : 
Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me word." 

To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere : 
HO 



TENNYSON. 

"It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee tliut>, 
Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm. 
A little thing may harm a wounded man. 
Yet I thy hest will all perform at full, 
Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word." 

So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he stept 
And in the moon athwart the place of tombs, 
Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men. 
Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang 
Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down 
By zig-zag paths, and juts of pointed rock, 
Came on the shining levels of the lake. 

There drew he forth the brand Excalibur, 
And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon. 
Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth 
And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt: 
For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks, 
Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work 
Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long 
That both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood, 
This Avay and that dividing the swift mind, 
In act to throw: but at the last it seem'd 
Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd 
There in the many -knotted waterflags, 
That whistled stiff and dry about the marge. 
So strode he back slow to the wounded King. 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: 
" Hast thou perform'd my mission which I gave '? 
What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?" 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : 
"I lieai'd the ripple washing in the reeds. 
And the wild water lapping on the crag." 

To whom replied I\ing Arthur, faint and pale : 
"Thou hast beti-ay'd thy nature and thy name, 
Not rendering true answer, as beseem'd 
Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight : 
For surer sign had follow'd, either hand, 
441 



MORTE D' ARTHUR. 

Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. 
This is a shameful thing for men to lie. 
Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again 
As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing 
I bad thee, watch, and lightly bring me word." 

Then went Sir Bedivere the second time 
Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere, 
Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in thought ; 
But Avhen he saw the wonder of the hilt, 
How curiously and strangely chased, he smote 
His palms together, and he cried aloud. 

" And if indeed I cast the brand away. 
Surely a precious thing, one worthy note. 
Should thus be lost for ever from the earth. 
Which might have pleased the eyes of many men. 
What good should follow this, if this were done ? 
What harm, undone? deep harm to disobey. 
Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. 
Were it well to obey then, if a king demand 
An act unprofitable, against himself? 
The Iving is sick, and knows not what he does. 
What record, or what relic of my lord 
Should be to aftertime, but empty bi'eatli 
And rumours of a doubt ? but were this kept, 
Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings, 
Some one might show it at a joust of arms. 
Saying, ' King Arthur's SAVord, Excalibur, 
Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake. 
Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deejis 
Upon the hidden bases of the hills.' 
So might some old man speak in the aftertime 
To all the people, Avinning re\'ei'ence. 
But now much honour and much fame Ave re lost' 

So spake he, clouded Avith his oaa'u conceit, 
And hid Excalibur the second time. 
And so strode back sIoav to the wounded King. 

Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily: 
442 



TENNYSON. 

-' What is it thou hast seen *? or what hast heard ?" 

And answer made the bokl Sir Bedivere : 
" I heard the water lapping on the crag, 
And the long ripple washing in the reeds." 

To Avhom ;replied King Arthur, much in -wrath : 
" Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, 
Unknightly, traitor-hearted ! Woe is me ! 
Authority forgets a dying king, 
Laid widow'd of the power in his eye 
That bow'd the will. I see thee what thou art. 
For thou, the latest-left of all my knights. 
In whom should meet the offices of all, 
Thou AYOuldst betray me for the precious hilt ; 
Either from lust of gold, or like a girl 
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. 
Yet, for a man may foil in duty twice. 
And the third time may prosper, get thee hence : 
But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, 
I will arise and slay thee Avith my hands." 

Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran, 
And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged 
Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch'd the sword. 
And strongly Avheel'd and threw it. The great brand 
Made lightnings in the splendour of the moon. 
And flashing round and round, and whirl'd in an arcli, 
Shot like a streamer of the northern morn. 
Seen where the moving isles of winter shock 
By night, with noises of the northern sea. 
So flash'd and fell the bx'and Excalibur : 
But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful. 
And caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him 
Three times, and drew him under in the mere. 
And lightly went the other to the King. 

Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath: 
"Now see I by thine eyes that this is done. 
Speak out: Avhat is it thou hast heard, or seen?" 
443 



MORTE D' ARTHUR. 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : 
" Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems 
Should blind my purpose, for I never saw, 
Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die, 
Not tho' I live three lives of mortal men, 
So great a miracle as yonder hilt. 
Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him : 
But when I look'd again, behold an arm. 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, Avonderful, 
That caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him 
Three times, and drew him under in the mere." 

And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard : 
"My end draws nigh; 'tis time that I were gone. 
Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight. 
And bear me to the margin ; yet I fear 
My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die." 

So saying, from the pavement he half rose, 
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm, , 

And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes 
As in a picture. Plim Sir Bedivere 
Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears, 
And would have spoken, but he found not words, 
Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee, 
O'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands, 
And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs. 

But, as he walk'd. King Arthur panted hard, 
Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed 
When all the house is mute. So sigh'd the King, 
Muttering and murmuring at his ear "Quick, quick 
I fear it is too late, and I shall die." 
But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge. 
Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walk'd. 
Larger than human on the frozen hills. 
He heard the deep behind him, and a cry 
Before. His own thought drove him like a goad. 
Dry clash' d his harness in the icy caves 
And barren chasms, and all to left and right 



TENNYSON. 

The bare black clilF clang'd round him, as he based 
His feet on juts of slippery crag that fang 
Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels — 
And on a sudden, lo ! the level lake, 
And the long glories of the winter moon. 

Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge, 
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern. 
Beneath them ; and descending they were ware 
That all the decks were dense with stately forms 
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream — by these 
Three Queens with cro^vns of gold — and from them rose 
A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars. 
And, as it were one voice, an agony 
Of lamentation, like a wind, that shrills 
All night in a waste land, where no one comes, 
Or hath come, since the making of the world. 

Then murmur'd Arthur, "Place me in the barge," 
And to the barge they came. There those three Queens 
Put forth their hands, and took the King, and Avept, 
But she, that rose the tallest of them all 
And fairest, laid his head upon her lap. 
And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed his hands, 
And call'd him by his name, complaining loud, 
And dropping bitter tears against his brow 
Striped with dark blood : for all his face was white 
And colourlo^^s, and like the wither'd moon 
Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east ; 
And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd with drops 
Of onset ; and the light and lustrous curls — 
Tliat made his forehead like a rising sun 
High from the dais-throne — were parch'd with dust ; 
Or, clotted into points and hanging loose, 
Mix'd with the knightly gi'owth that fringed his lips. 
So like a shatter'd colunm lay the King ; 
Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest, 
From spur to plume a star of tournament, 
445 



MOKTE D'ARTHUK. 

Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charged 
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. 

Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere, 
" Ah ! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go ? 
Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes? 
For now I see the true old times are dead, 
When every morning brought a noble chance, 
And every chance brought out a noble knight. 
Such times have been not since the light that led 
The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. 
But now the whole round table is dissolved 
Which was an image of the mighty world ; 
And I, the last, go forth comjmnionloss, 
And the days darken round me, and the years, 
Among new men, strange faces, other minds." 

And slowly answer'd Arthvu- from the barge : 
" The old order changeth, yielding place to new. 
And God fulfils himself in many ways, 
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. 
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me? 
I have lived my life, and that which I have done 
May He within himself make pure ! but thou, 
If thou shouldst never see my face again. 
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer 
Than this world dreams of. A^Hierefore, let thy voice 
Rise like a fountain for me night and day. 
For what are men better than sheep or goats 
That nourish a blind life within the brain, 
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer 
Both for themselves and those who call them friend ? 
For so the whole round earth is every way 
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. 
But now farewell. I am going a long way 
With these thou seest — if indeed I go — 
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt) 
To the island-valley of Avilion ; 
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, 
446 






^' 




Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies 
Deep-meadow' d, happy, fair AA-ith orchard-lawns 
And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea, 
\Vliere I \\ill heal rae of my grievous wound," 
447 



MORTE D'ARTHUE. 

So said he, and the barge with oai' and sail 
Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan 
That, fluting a Avild carol ei'e her death, 
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood 
With swarthy webs. Long. stood Sir Bedivere 
Revolving many memories, till the hull 
Look'd one black dot against the verge of dawn, 
And on the mere the wailing died away. 



448 




EDWARD GRAY 

S"\vt:et Emma Morelancl of yonder town 

Met me walking on yonder ■\^•ay, 
" And have you lost your heart ?" she said ; 

"And are you married yet, Edward Gray?" 



Sweet Emma INIoreland spoke to mc : 
]5itterly weeping I turn'd away : 

"Sweet Emma Moreland, love no more 
Can touch the heart of Edward Gray 
449 



EDWARD GRAY. 

'' Ellen Adair she loved me well, 

Against her father's and mother's will : 

To-day I sat for an hour and wept, 
By Ellen's grave, on the Avindy hill. 

" Shy she was, and I thought her cold ; 

Thought her proud, and fled over the sea 
Fill'd I was with folly and spite. 

When Ellen Adair was dying for me. 

''Cruel, cruel the words I said! 

Cruelly came they back to-day: 
' You're too slight and fickle,' I said, 

'To trouble the heart of Edward Gray.' 

"There I put my face in the grass — 
Whisper'd, 'Listen to my despair: 

I repent me of all I did : 
Speak a little, Ellen Adair!' 

"Then I took a pencil, and wrote 

On the mossy stone, as I lay, 
' Here lies the body of Ellen Adair ; 

And here the heart of Edward Gray!' 

" Love may come, and love may go, 
And fly, like a bird, from tree to tree : 

But I will love no more, no more. 
Till Ellen Adair come back to me. 

" Bitterly wept I over the stone : 
Bitterly weeping I tui'n'd away: 

There lies the body of Ellen Adair ! 

And there the heart of Edward Gray!" 



450 




THE GOOSE. 

I KNEW an old wife lean and poor, 
Her rags scarce held together ; 

There strode a stranger to the door. 
And it was windy weather. 

He held a goose upon his arm, 

He iitter'd rhyme and reason, 
" Here, take the goose, and keep }ou warm, 

It is a stoiHuy season." 



She caught the white goose by the leg, 
A goose — 'twas no great matter. 

The goose let fall a golden egg 
With cackle and witli clatter. 
4ol 



THE GOOSE. 

She dropt the goose, and caught the pelf, 
And ran to tell her neighbours ; 

And bless'd herself, and cursed herself. 
And rested from her labours. 

And feeding high, and living soft, 
Grew plump and able-bodied ; 

Until the grave churchwarden doff'd. 
The parson smirk'd and nodded. 

So sitting, served by man and maid. 
She felt her heart grow prouder : 

But ah ! the more the white goose laid 
It clack'd and cackled louder. 

It clutter'd here, it chuckled there ; 

It stirr'd the old wife's mettle : 
She shifted in her elbow-chair. 

And hurl'd the pan and kettle. 

"A quinsy choke thy cursed note!" 
Then wax'd her anger stronger. 

" Go, take the goose, and wring her throat. 
I Avill not bear it longer." 

Then yelp'd the cur, and yawl'd the cat : 
Ran Gaffer, stumbled Gammer. 

The goose flew this way and flew that. 
And fill'd the house Avith clamour. 

As head and heels upon the floor 

They flounder'd all together, 
There strode a stranger to tlie door, 

And it was windy weather: 
452 



TENNYSON. 

lie took the goose upon his arm, 
He utter' d words of scorning ; 

" So keep you cold, or keep you warm, 
It is a stormy morning." 

The wild ^vind rang from park and plain, 
And round the attics rumbled, 

Till all the tables danced again, 
And half the chimneys tumbled. 

The glass blew in, the fire blew out, 
The blast was hard and harder. 

Her cap blcAv off, her gown blcAv up, 
And a whirlwind clear'd the larder ; 

And while on all sides breaking loose 
Her household fled the danger, 

t^uoth she, " The Devil take the goose. 
And God forget the stranger !" 



4r.3 




Break, break, break, 

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! 
And I Avoidd that my tongue could utter 

The thou<i;hts that arise in nie. 



O well for the fisherman's boy, 

That he shouts Avith his sister at play ! 

O well for the sailor lad, 

That he sings in his boat on the bny ! 
454 



TENNYSON. 

And the stately ships go on 
To their haven under the hill ; 

But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand. 
And the sound of a voice that is still ! 

Break, break, break, 

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! 
But the tender grace of a day that is dead 

Will never come back to me. 



455 



COOKE. 
FLORENCE VANE. 

I LOVED thee long and dearly, 

Florence Vane ; 
My life's bright dream, and early 

Hath come again ; 
I renew in my fond vision, 

My heart's dear pain, 
My hope, and thy derision, 

Florence Vane. 

The ruin lone and hoary, 

The ruin old, 
"Wliere thou didst mark my story, 

At even told, — 
That spot — the hues Elysian 

Of sky and plain — 
I treasure in my vision, 

Florence Vane. 

Thou wast lovelier than the roses 

In their prime ; 
Thy voice excelled the closes 

Of sweetest rhyme ; 
Thy heart was as a river 

Without a main. 
Would I had loved thee never, 

Florence Vane ! 

But, fairest, coldest wonder ! 

Thy glorious clay 
Lieth the green sod under — 

Alas the day ! 
456 



COOKE. 

And it boots not to remember 

Thy disdain — 
To quicken love's pale ember, 

Florence Vane. 

The lilies of the valley 

By young graves weep, 
The pansies love to dally 

Where maidens sleep ; 
May their bloom, in beauty vying, 

Never wane 
Where thine earthly part is lying, 

Florence Vane ! 



YOUNG ROSALIE LEE. 

I LOVE to forget ambition, 

And hope, in the mingled thought 
Of valley, and wood, and meadow, 

Where, whilom, my spirit caught 
Affection's holiest breathings — 

Where under the skies, with me 
Young Rosalie roved, aye drinking 

From joy's bright Castaly. 

I think of the valley and river, 

Of the old wood bright with blossoms ; 
Of the pure and chastened gladness 

Upppringing in our bosoms. 
I thhik of the lonely turtle 

So tongued with melancholy; 
Of the hue of the drooping moonlight, 

And the starlight pure and holy. 
457 



YOUNG EOSALIE LEE. 

Of the beat of a heart most tender, 

The sigh of a shell-tinct lip 
As soft as the land-tones wandering 

Far leagues over ocean deep ; 
Of a step as light in its falling 

On the breast of the beaded lea 
As the fall of the faery moonlight 

On the leaf of yon tulip tree. 

I think of these — and the murmur 

Of bird, and katydid, 
Whose home is the grave-yard cypress, 

Whose goblet the honey-reed. 
And then I weep! for Eosalie 

Has gone to her early rest ; 
And the green-lipped reed and the daisy 

Suck sweets from her maiden breast. 



458 







WHITTIER. 



MAUD MULLER. 



Maud Muller, on a summer's day, 
Riiked the meadow, sweet Avith hay. 

Beneath licr torn liat gloAved the wealth 
Of simple beauty and rustic health. 
459 



MAUD MULLER. 

Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee 
The mock-bird echoed from his tree. 

But, when she glanced to the far-off town, 
"SMiite from its hill-slope, looking down, 

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest 
And a nameless longing filled her breast — 

A wish, that she hardly dared to own, 
For something better than she had known. 

The Judge rode slowly down the lane. 
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane. 

He drew his bridle in the shade 

Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid, 

And ask a draught from the spring that flowed 
Through the meadow across the road. 

She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, 
And filled for him her small tin cup, 

And blushed as she gave it, looking down 
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. 

" Thanks !" said the Judge, " a sweeter draught 
From a fairer hand was never quaffed." 

He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees, 
Of the singing birds and the humming bees ; 

Then talked of the haying, and wondered Avhether 
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather. 

And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown, 
And her graceful ankles bare and brown; 

And listened, while a pleased surprise 
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. 

At last, like one who for delay 
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. 
460 



WHITTIER. 

Maud Muller looked and sighed: "Ah, me! 
That I the Judge's bride might be! 

"He would dress me up in silks so fine. 
And praise and toast me at his wine. 

" My father should wear a broadcloth coat : 
My brother should sail a painted boat. 

"I'd dress my mother so grand and gay, 

And the baby should have a new toy each day. 

"And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor. 
And all should bless me who left our door." 

The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill, 
And saw Maud Muller standing still. 

"A form more fair, a face more sweet, 
Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet. 

"And her modest answer and graceful air 
Show her wise and good as she is fair. 

"Would she were mine, and I to-day. 
Like her, a harvester of hay: 

" No doubtftd balance of rights and Avrongs, 
Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, 

"But low of cattle and song of birds. 
And health and quiet and loving words." 

But he thought of his sisters proud and cold. 
And his mother vain of her rank and gold. 

So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on, 
And Maud was left in the field alone. 

But the la-ttyers smiled that afternoon, 
When he hummed in court an old love-tune ; 

And the young girl mused beside the well. 
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. 
461 



MAUD MULLER. 

He wedded a wife of richest dower, 
Who lived for fashion, as he for power. 

Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow, 
He watched a picture come and go: 

And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes 
Looked out in their innocent surprise. 

Oft wdien the wine in his glass was red, 
He longed for the way-side well instead; 

And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms, 
To dream of meadows and clover-blooms. 

And the proud man sighed, -s^ith a secret pain : 
"Ah, that I were free again! 

" Free as when I rode that day. 

Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay." 

She wedded a man unlearned and poor. 
And many children played round her door. 

But care and sorrow, and childbirth pain, 
Left their traces on heart and brain. 

And oft, when the summer sun shone hot 
On the new-iBown hay in the meadow lot, 

And she heard the little spring-brook fall 
Over the road-side, through the wall. 

In the shade of the apple-tree again 
She saw a rider draw his rein : 

And, gazing down Avith timid grace. 
She felt his pleased eyes read her face. 

Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls 
Stretched away into stately halls ; 

The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, 
The tallow candle an astral burned, 
462 



WHITTIER. 

And foi* Iiun who sat by the chimney lug, 
Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug, 

A manly form at her side she saw, 
And joy was duty and love was law. 

Then she took up her burden of life again. 
Saying only, "It might have been." 

Alas for maiden, alas for Judge, 

For rich repiner and household drudge ! 

God pity them both ! and pity us all, 
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall. 

For of all sad words of tongue or pen, 

The saddest ai-e these: "It might have been!' 

Ah, well ! for us all some sweet hope lies 
Deeply buried from human eyes ; 

And, in the hereafter, angels may 
EoU the stone from its grave away! 



GONE. 



Another hand is beckoning us, 

Another call is given ; 
And glows once more with Angel-stepS 

The path which reaches Heaven. 

Our young and gentle friend Avhose smile 
Made brighter summer hours, 

Amid the frosts of autumn time 
Has left us, with the flowers. 

■ica 



GONE. 

No paling of the cheek of bloom 

Forewarned us of decay; 
No shadow from the Silent Laud 

Fell round our sister's "way. 

The light of her young life Avent down, 

As sinks behind the hill 
The glory of a setting star — 

Clear, suddenly, and still. 

As pure and sweet, her fair brow seemed — 

Etei-nal as the sky ; 
And like the brook's low song, her voice — 

A sound which could not die. 

And half we deemed she needed not 

The changing of her sphere. 
To give to Heaven a Shining One, 

Who walked an Angel here. 

The blessing of her quiet life 

Fell on us like the dew ; 
And good thoughts, where her footsteps pressed. 

Like fairy blossoms grew. 

Sweet promptings unto kindest deeds 

Were in her very look ; 
We read her face, as one who I'eads 

A true and holy book: 

The measure of a blessed hymn, 
To which our hearts could move ; 

The breathing of an inward psalm ; 
A canticle of love. 

We miss her in the place of prayer. 

And by the hearth-fire's light ; 
We pause beside her door to hear 

Once more her sweet " Good-night !" 
464 



WlilTTIEK. 

There seems a shadow on the day, 
Her smile no longer cheers ; 

A dimness on the stars of night, 
Like eyes that look through tears. 

Alone unto our Father's will 
One thought hath reconciled ; 

That He whose love exceedeth ours 
Hath taken home His child. 

Fold her, oh Father! in thine arms, 

And let her henceforth be 
A messenger of love between 

Our human hearts and Thee. 

Still let her mild rebuking stand 

Between us and the wrong, 
And her dear memory serve to make 

Our faith in Goodness strong. 

And, grant that she who, trembling, here 

Distrusted all her powers. 
May welcome to her holier home 

The well beloved of ours. 



-1 r,r, 




li ^'k 







POE. 



THE RAVEN. 



Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary. 
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore — 
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, 
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. 
" Tis some visitor," I muttered, " tapping at my chariiber door — 

Only this and nothing more. 
466 



POE. 

All, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, 
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. 
Eagerly I wished the morrow ; — vainly I had sought to borrow 
From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost Lenore — 
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore — 

Nameless here for evermore. 

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain 
Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before ; 
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating 
" 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber •door — 
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door ; 

This it is and nothing more." 

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, 
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; 
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, 
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door. 
That I scarce was sure I heard you" — here I opened wide the door ; — 

Darkness there and nothing more. 

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, 
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before ; 
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token. 
And the only Avord there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?" 
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" — 

Merely this and nothing more. 

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, 
Soon again I heard a tapping something louder than before. 
" Surely," said I, " surely that is something at my windoAv lattice ; 
Let me see, then, what thereat is and this mystery explore — 
Let my heart be still a moment and this mysteiy explore ; — 

'Tis the Avind and nothing more." 

Open here I flung the shutter, Avhen, Avith many a flirt and flutter, 
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore. 

■167 



THE RAVEN. 

Not the least obeisance made he ; not a minute stopped or stayed he ; 
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door — 
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door — 

Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, 

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, 

" Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, " art sure no 

craven, 
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore — 
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore !" 

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly. 

Though its answer little meaning — little relevancy bore; 

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being 

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door — 

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, 

With such name as "Nevermore." 

But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only 
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. 
Nothing farther then he uttered ; not a feather then he fluttered — 
Till I scarcely more than muttered "■ Other friends have flown before — 
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before." 

Then the bird said "Nevermore." 

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, 
"Doubtless," said I, "what it uttei's is its only stock and store 
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster 
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore — 
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore 

Of ' Never — nevermore.' " 

But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, 
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door ; 
Fhen, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking 

4G8 



POE. 

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore — 
AVluit this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore 

Meant in croaking "Nevermore.'' 

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing 
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core ; 
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining 
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er. 
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er 

She shall press, ah, nevermoj'e ' 

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer 

Swung by Seraphim Avhose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. 

" Wretch," I cried, " thy God hath lent thee — by these angels he hath 

sent thee 
Respite — respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! 
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and foi-get this lost Lenore !" 

Quoth the Eaven, " jSTevermore.'" 

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil I — prophet still, if bird or devil! — 

Wliether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore. 

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted — 

On this home by Horror haunted — tell me truly, I implore — 

Is there — is there balm in Gilead? — tell me — tell me, I implore!" 

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore.'" 

" Prophet !" said I, " thing of evil — prophet still, if bird or devil ! 
By that Heaven that bends above us — by that God we both adore — 
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, 
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore — 
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore." 

Quoth the Eaven, "Nevermore.'' 

" Be that word oui" sign of parting, bird or fiend !" I shrieked, up- 
starting — 
" Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore ! 
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken ! 

•IG'J 



THE RAVEN. 

Leave my loneliness unbroken! — quit the bust above my door! 
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!" 

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 

And the Eaven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting 

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door ; 

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, 

And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; 

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor 

Shall be lifted — nevermore! 



470 



^ *% 




m 








LONGFELLOW 



HYMN TO THE NIGHT. 

'kaTrac'tr], Tpi/.?.iaTog. 
I HEARD the trailing garments of the Night 

Sweep through her marble halls ! 
I saw her sable skirts all fringed \\ith liglil 
From the celestial walls ! 
471 



HYMN TO THE NIGHT. 

I felt her presence, by its si^ell of might, 

Stoop o'er me from above ; 
The calm, majestic presence of the Night, 

As of the one I love. 

I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, 

The manifold, soft chimes. 
That hll the haunted chambers of the Nifht. 

Like some old poet's rhymes. 

I^'rom the cool cisterns of the midnight air 

My spirit drank repose ; 
The fountain of perpetual peace flows there. 

From those deep cisterns flows. 

holy Night! from thee I learn to bear 

What man has borne before ; 
Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, 

And they complain no more. 

Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer! 

Descend with broad-^vinged flight. 
The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair. 

The best-beloved Ni^ht! 



472 







RESIGNATION. 

TriERE is no flock, however watched a,ncl tended, 

But one dead lamb is there ! 
There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, 

But has one vacant chair ! 



The air is full of farewells to the dying, 

And mournings for the dead ; 
The heart of Kachel, for her children crying, 

Will not be comforted! 
473 



EESIGNATION. 

Let us be patient! These severe afflictions 

Not from the ground arise, 
But oftentimes celestial benedictions 

Assume this dark disguise. 

We see but dimly through the mists and vapours. 

Amid these earthly damps ; 
What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers, 

May be heaven's distant lamps. 

There is no Death! What seems so is ti-ansition 

This life of mortal breath 
Is but a suburb of the life elysian, 

Whose portal ^ve call Death. 

She is not dead, — the child of our affection, — 

But gone unto that school 
Where she no longer needs our poor protection, 

And Christ himself doth rule. 

In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion. 

By guardian angels led. 
Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, 

She lives, whom we call dead. 

Day after day we think what she is doing 

In those bright realms of air ; 
Year after year her tender steps j^ursuing, 

Behold her srown more fair. 



Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken 

The bond which nature gives. 
Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken, 

May reach her where she lives. 
47-1 



-1D 



LONGFELLOW. 

Not as a child shall wc again behold her ; 

For when with raptures wild 
In our embraces Ave again enfold her, 

She will not be a child ; 

But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion, 

Clothed with celestial grace ; 
And beautiful with all the soul's expansion 

Shall we behold her face. 

And though at times impetuous with emotion 

And anguish long suppressed, 
T'he swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, 

That cannot be at rest. — 

^Ve will be patient, and assuage the feeling 
We may not wholly stay ; 



/^V^ Sift- silence sanctifying, not concealing, 
(/ The grief that must ha^'e way. 



475 




KING WITLAF'S DRINKING-HORN. 



WiTLAF, a king of the Saxons, 
Ere yet his last he breathed, 

To the merry monks of Croyhmcl 
Mis drinking-horn bequeathed, — 
i7G 



LONGFELLOW, 



That, whenever they sat at then' revels, 
And drank from the golden bowl, 

Tlicy might remember the donor, 
And breathe a prayer for his soul. 




So sat they once at Christmas, 
And bade the goblet pass ; 

In their beards the red Avine glistened 
Like dew-drops in the grass. 
477 



IvlNG WITLAF'S DRINKING-HORN. 

TJiey drank to the soul of Witlaf, 
They drank to Christ the Lord, 

And to each of the Twelve Apostles, 
Who had preached his holy word. 

They drank to the Saints and Martyrs 

Of the dismal days of yore. 
And as sooh as the horn was empty 

They remembered one Saint more. 

And the reader droned from the pulpit, 
Like the murmur of many bees, 

The legend of good Saint Guthlac, 
And Saint Basil's homilies ; 

Till the great bells of the convent, 
From their prison in the tower, 

Guthlac and Bartholomceus, 
Proclaimed the midnight hour. 

And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney. 

And the Abbot bowed his head, 
And the ilamelets flapped and flickered. 

But the Abbot was stark and dead. 

Yet still in his pallid fingers 

He clutched the golden bowl, 
111 which, like a pearl dissolving. 

Had sunk and dissolved his soul. 

But not for this their revels 

The jovial monks forbore, 
For they cried, " Fill high the goblet ' 

We must drink to one Saint more !" 



478 



Jfe 




EXCELSIOR. 

The shades of night were felling fast, 
As through an Alpine village passed 
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, 
A banner with the strange device, 
Excelsior ! 



His brow was sad ; his eye beneath, 
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath, 
And like a silver clarion rung 
The accents of that Tuiknown tongue. 
Excelsior ! 
479 



EXCEL SIOE. 

In liappy homes he saw the light 
Of household iires gleam warm and briglit 
Above, the spectral glaciers shone, 
And from his lips escaped a groan. 
Excelsior ! 

" Try not the Pass !" the old man said : 
" Dark lowers the tempest ovei-head, 
The roaring torrent is deep and wide!" 
And loud that clarion voice replied, 
Excelsior ! 

" O, stay," the maiden said, " and rest 
Thy weary head upon this breast!" 
A tear stood in his bright blue eye, 
But still he answered, Avith a sigh, 
Excelsior ! 

"Beware the pine-tree's Avithered branch! 
Beware the awful avalanche!" 
This was the peasant's last Good-night ; 
A voice replied, far up the height, 
Excelsior ! 

At break of day, as heavenward 
The pious monks of Saint Bernai'd 
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, 
A voice cried through the startled mv. 
Excelsior ! 



A traveller, by the faithful hound, 
Plalf-buried in the snoAA^ Avas found, 
Still grasping in his hand of ice 
That banner Avith the strange device, 
Excelsior ! 
480 



LONGFELLOW. 

There, in the twilight cold and gray, 
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, 
And from the sky, serene and for, 
A voice fell, like a falling star, 
Excelsior ! 



481 




TUCKERMAK 
WEST POINT. 

Wild umbrage far around me clings 
To breezy knoll and hushed ravine, 

And o'er each rocky headland flings 
Its mantle of refreshing green. 
482 . 



TUCKERMAN. 

The echoes that so boldly rung 

When cannon flashed from steep to steep, 
And Freedom's airy challenge flung, 

In each romantic valley sleep. 

His counsels here our chieftain breathed, 
Here roved his mild, undaunted eye, 

When yon lone fort with thickets wreathed, 
Held captive Britain's gallant spy. 

Fit home to rear a nation's youth 
By self-control to nerve the will. 

Through knowledge gain expansive truth. 
And with high aims life's circle fill. 

How gi-atcful is the sudden change 
From arid pavements to the grass, 

I-'rom narroAv streets that thousands range, 
To meadows where June's zephyrs pass! 

Beneath the cliffs the river steals 
In darksome eddies to the shore, 

But midway every sail reveals 
Reflected on its crystal floor. 

/ 

In tranquil mood the cattle walk 

Along the verdant marge to feed, 
Wliile poised upon the mullein stalk 

The chu'ping red-bird pecks the seed. 

Low murmurs in the foliage bred, 
The clear horizon's azure line. 

Fresh turf elastic to the tread, 
And leafy canopies are thine. 
483 



WEST POINT. 

White fleecy clouds move slowly by, 
How cool their shadows fall to-day! 

A moment on the hills they lie, 
And then like spirits glide awaj-. 

Amid the herbage, yesternight 

His web the cunning spider threw, 

And now, as sparkling diamonds bright, 
It glistens with the pendent dew. 

Gay butterflies dart on and sink 
O'er the sweet blossoms of the pea. 

And from the clover's globe of pink 
Contented hums the downy bee. 

In all his varied beauty glows 

Deep meaning for the thoughtful heart, 

As it Avere fain to teach repose, 
And lofty confidence impart. 

How vivid to my fancy now. 

Uprise the forms that life redeem I 

The ardent eye' — the open brow. 
And tender smile beside me seem. 

For Nature's presence gathers back 

The deeds that grace, the loves that cheer. 

And as her holy steps we track, 

Hope's rainbow breaks through sorrow's tear. 



484 



^■"'-r i^av\'if. 




HOLMES. 



THE LAST LEAF. 



I SAW him once before, 
As he passed by the door, 

Aiid agum 
The pavement stones resound 
As he totters o'er the ground 

With his cane. 
485 



THE LAST LEAF. 

They say that in his prime, 
Ere the pruning-knife of Tinn-. 

'Cut him down, 
Not a better man was found 
By the Crier on his round 

Through the town. 

But now he walks the streets, 
And he looks at all he meets 

Sad and wan, 
And he shakes his feeble head, 
That it seems as if he said, 

"They are gone." 

The mossy marbles rest 

On the lips that he has prest 

In their bloom, 
And the names he loved to heai- 
Have been carved for many a year 

On the tomb. 

My grandmamma has said, — 
Poor old lady, she is dead 

Long ago,— 
That he had a Roman nose, 
And his cheek was like a rose 

In the snow. 

But now his nose is thin, 
And it rests upon his chin 

Like a staff. 
And a crook is in his back. 
And a melancholy crack 

In his laugh. 

I know it is a sin 
For me to sit and grin 
At him here ; 

486 



HOLMES. 

But the old three-cornered hat, 
And the breeches, and all that, 
Are so queer! 

And if I should live to be 
The last leaf upon the tree 

In the spring, — 
Let them smile, as I do now, 
At the old forsaken bough 

Where I cling. 



487 



Mil// :.-n4¥':\rl 




ON LENDING A PUNCH-BOWL. 



This cancient silver bowl of mine — it tells of good old times, 
Of joyous days and jolly nights, and merry Christmas chimes ; 
They were a free and jovial race, but honest, brave and true. 
That dipped their ladle in the punch when this old bowl was new. 

488 



HOLMES. 

A Spanish galleon brought the bar — so runs the ancient tale— 
'Twas hammered by an Antwerp smith, whose arm was like a tluil ; 
And now and then between the strokes, for fear his strength should fail. 
He wiped his brow, and quaffed a cup of good old Flemish ale. 

'Twas purchased by an English squu-e to please his loving dame. 
Who saw the cherubs, and conceived a longing for the same; 
And oft as on the ancient stock another twig was found, 
'Twas filled with caudle spiced and hot, and handed smoking i-ound. 

But, changing hands, it reached at length a Puritan divine. 

Who used to follow Timothy, and take a little Avine, 

But hated punch and prelacy; and so it was, perhaps, 

He went to Leyden, where he found conventicles and schnaps. 

And then, of course, you know what's next — it left the Dutchman's shore 
With those that in the Mayflower came, — a hundred souls and more, — 
Along with all the furniture, to fill their new abodes — 
To judge by what is still on hand, at least a hundred loads. 

'Twas on a dreary winter's eve, the night was closing dim, 
AMien old Miles Standish took the bowl, and filled it to the brim. 
The little Capt^n stood and stirred the posset with his .sword, 
And all his sturdy men at arms were ranged about the board. 

He poured the fiery hollands in — the man that never feared — 
He took a long and solemn draught, and wiped his yellow beard; 
And one by one the musketeers, the men that fought and prayed, 
All di-ank as 'twere their mother's milk, and not a man afraid! 

That night, affrighted from his nest, the screaming eagle flew. 
He heard the Pequot's ringing whoop, the soldier's wild halloo ; 
And there the .sachem learned the rule he taught to kith and kin, 
"Eun from the white man when you find he smells of hollands gin!" 

A hundred years, and fifty more had spread their leaves and snows, 
A thousand rubs had flattened dowTi each little cherub's nose ; 
When once again the bowl was filled, but not in mirth or joy, 
'Twas mingled by a mother's hand to cheer her parting boy. 

489 



ON LENDING A PUNCH-BOWL. 

Drink, John, she said, 'twill do you good — poor child, you'll never bear 
This working in the dismal trench, out in the midnight air, 
And if — God bless me — ^you were hurt, 'tAvould keep away the chill ; 
So John did drink — and well he wrought that night at Bunker's Hill! 

I tell you, there was generous warmth in good old English cheer; 
I tell you, 'twas a pleasant thought to bring its symbol here; 
'Tis but the fool that loves excess — hast thou a drunken soul, 
Thy banc is in thy shallow skull, not in my silver bowl ! 

I love the memory of the past — its pressed yet fragrant flowers — 
The moss that clothes its broken walls — the ivy on its toAvers — 
Nay, this poor bauble it bequeathed — my eyes grow moist and dim, 
To think of all the vanished joys that danced around its brim. 

Then fill a fair and honest cup, and bear it straight to me ; 

The goblet hallows all it holds, whate'er the liquid be ; 

And may the cherubs on its face protect me from the sin, 

That dooms one to those dreadful words — "My dear, where have you been V 



490 







STREET. 



A FOREST NOOK. 



A NOOK within the forest ; overhead 
The branches arcli, and shape a pleasant bower 
Breaking white cloud, blue sky and sunshine bri<.h., 
Into pure ivory and sapphire spots, 
491 



A FOKEST NOOK. 

And flecks of gold ; a soft cool emerald tint 
Colours the air, as though the delicate leaves 
Emitted self-born light. "WTiat splendid walls 
And what a gorgeous roof carved by the hand 
Of glorious Nature ! Here the spruce thrusts in 
Its bristling plume, tipp'd with its pale green points : 
The scallop'd beech leaf, and the birch's cut 
Into fine ragged edges, interlace: 
While here and there, through clefts, the laurel lifts 
Its snowy chalices half-brimm'd with dew, 
As though to hoard it for the haunting elves 
The moonlight calls to this their festal hall, 
A thick, rich, gi-assy carpet clothes the earth, 
Sprinkled with autumn leaves. The fern displays 
Its fluted wi-eath beaded beneath with drops 
Of richest brown ; the wild-rose spreads its breast 
Of delicate pink, and the o'erhanging fir 
Has dropp'd its dark, long cone. 

The scorching glare, 
Without, makes this green nest a grateful haunt 
For summer's radiant things ; the butterfly 
Fluttering within and resting on some flower, 
Fans his rich velvet form ; the toiling bee 
Shoots by, with sounding hum and mist-like Avings : 
The I'obin perches on the bending spray 
With shrill, quick chirp ; and like a flake of fire 
The redbird seeks the shelter of the leaves. 
And noAv and then a flutter overhead 
In the thick green, betrays some wandering wing 
Coming and going, yet conceal'd from sight. 
A shrill, loud outcry — on yon highest bough 
Sits the gi'ay squirrel, in his burlesque wrath 
Stamping and chattering fiercely : now he drops 
A hoarded nut, then at my smiling gaze 
Buries himself within the foliage. 
The insect tribe are here ; the ant toils on 
With its white burthen; in its netted web 
492 



STREET. 

Gray glistening o'er the bush, the spider lurks, 

A close-crouch'd ball, out-darting as a hum 

Tells its trapp'd prey, and looping quick its threads, 

Chains into helplessness the buzzing wings. 

The wood-tick taps its tiny muffled drum 

To the shrill cricket-fife, and swelling loud. 

The grasshopper its swelling bugle winds. 

Those breaths of Nature, the light fluttering airs 

Like gentle respirations, come and go. 

Lift on its crimson stem the maple-leaf. 

Displaying its white lining underneath, 

And sprinkle from the tree-tops golden rain 

Of sunshine on the velvet sward below. 

Such nooks as this are common in the woods : 

And all these sights and sounds the commonest 

Li Nature when she wears her summer prime. 

Yet by them pass not lightly: to the Avise 

They tell the beauty and the harmony 

Of e'en the lowliest things that God hath made. 

That His familiar earth and sky are full 

Of His ineffable poAver and majesty ; 

That in the humble objects, seen too oft 

To be regarded, is such AA^ondrous grace. 

The art of man is vain to imitate ; 

That the low flower our careless foot treads doAvn 

Is a rich shrine of incense delicate. 

And radiant beauty, and that God hath form'd 

All, from the cloud-AATeath'd mountain, to the grain 

Of siher sand the bubbling spring casts up 

With deepest forethought and severest care. 

And thus these noteless loA^ely things are types 

01" his perfection and divinity. 



403 



ROBERT BROWNING. 



TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA. 

I WONDER do you feel to-day 

As I liave felt, since, lumd iu baud, 

We sat down on the grass, to stray 
In spirit better tbrougb the land. 

This morn of Rome and May? 

For me, I touched a thought, I know, 
Has tantalised me many times, 

(Like turns of thread the spiders throw 
Mocking across our path,) for rhymes 

To catch at and let go. 

Help me to hold it : first it left 
The yellowing fennel, run to seed 

There, branching from the brickwork's cleft. 
Some old tomb's ruin : yonder weed 

Took up the floating weft, 

Where one small orange-cup amassed 

Five beetles, — blind ai:id green they grope 

Among the honey-meal, — and last 
Everywhere on the grassy slope 

I traced it. Hold it fast! 

The champaign with its endless fleece 
Of feathery grasses everywhere! 

Silence and passion, joy and peace, 
An everlasting wash of air — 

Rome's ghost since her decease. 
494 




Such life there, through such lengths of hours, 
Such miracles performed in play. 

Such primal naked forms of flowers. 
Such letting Nature have her way 

While Heaven looks from its towers. 



IIow say you? Let us, O my dove, 
Let us be unashamed of soul. 

As earth lies bare to heaven above. 
How is it under our control 

To love or not to love? 
495 



TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA. 

I would that you were all to me, 

You that are just so much, no more — 

Nor yours, nor mine, — nor slave nor free ! 
AVhere does the fault lie? what the core 

Of the wound, smce wound must be? 

I would I could adopt your will. 

See with your eyes, and set my heart 

Beating by yours, and drink my fill 

At your soul's springs, — your part, my part 

la life, for good and ill. 

No. I yearn upward — touch you close, 
Then stand away. I kiss your cheek, 

Catch your soul's warmth, — I pluck the rose 
And love it more than tongue can speak, — 

Then the good minute goes. 

Already how am I so far 

Out of that minute? Must I go 

Still like the thistle-ball, no bar, 

Onward, whenever light winds blow, 

Fixed by no friendly star? 

Just when I seemed about to learn! — 
"VYliere is the thread now ? Off agam ! 

The old trick ! Only I discern — 
Infinite passion and the pain 

Of finite hearts that yearn. 



496 



ROBEKT BROWNING. 



EVELYN HOPE. 

Beactifdl Evelyn Hope is dead ; 

Sit and watch by her side an hour. 
That is her book-shelf, this her bed ; 

She plucked that piece of geranium-flower, 
Beginning to die too, in the glass. 

Little has yet been changed, I think — 
The shutters ai-e shut, no light may pass 

Save two long rays thro' the hinge's chink. 

Sixteen years old when she died ! 

Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name — 
It Avas not her time to love : beside. 

Her life had many a hope and aim, 
Duties enough and little cares, 

And now was quiet, now astir — 
Till God's hand beckoned unawares. 

And the sweet white brow is all of her. 

Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope? 

What, your soul was pure and true. 
The good stars met in your horoscope. 

Made you of spirit, fire, and dew ; 
And just because I was thrice as old. 

And our paths in the world diverged so wide. 
Each was nought to each, must I be told? 

We were fellow-mortals, nought beside? 

No, indeed ! for God above 

Is great to grant, as mighty to make, 
And creates the love to reward the love, — 

I claim you still, for my own love's sake ! 
197 



EVELYN HOPE. 

Delayed it may be for more lives yet, 

Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few — 

Much is to learn and much to forget 
Ere the time be come for taking you. 

But the time wUl come, — at last it Avill, — 

When, Evelyn Hope, what meant, I shall say, 
In the lower earth, in the years long still, 

That body and soul so pure and gay? 
Why your hair was amber, I shall divine. 

And your mouth of your own geranium's red — 
And what you would do with me, in fine. 

In the new life come in the old one's stead. 

I have lived, I shall say, so much since then. 

Given up myself so. many times, 
Gained me the gains of various men, 

Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes ; . 
Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope, 

Either I missed or itself missed me — 
And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope ! 

What is the issue? let us see! 

I loved you, Evelyn, all the while ; 

My heart seemed full as it could hold — 
There was place and to spare for the frank young smile, 

And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold. 
So, hush, — I will give you this* leaf to keep — 

See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand. 
There, that is our secret ! go to sleep ; 

You will wake, and remember, and understand. 



498 




ELIZABETH BAREETT BROWNING. 



WINE OF CYPRUS. 



If old Bacchus were the speaker, 

He would tell you, with a sigh, 
Of the Cyprus in this beaker 

I am sipping like a fly, — 
Like a fly or gnat on Ida 

At the hour of goblet-pledge. 
By queen Juno brushed aside, a 

Full white arm-sweep, from the edge. 
499 



WINE OF CYPEUS. 

Sooth, the drinking should be ampler. 

When the drink is so divine : 
And some deep-mouthed Greek exampler 

Would become your Cyprus wine ! 
Cyclop's mouth might plunge aright in, 

While his one eye over-leered — 
Not too large Avere mouth of Titan, 

Drinking rivers down his beard. 



Pan might dip his head so deep in. 

That his ears alone pricked out, 
Fauns around him, pressing, leaping, 

Each one pointing to his throat : 
While the Naiads, like Bacchantes 

Wild, with urns thrown out to waste, 
Cry, — " O earth, that thou wouldst grant us 

Springs to keep, of such a taste !" 

But for me, I am not worthy 

After gods and Greeks to drink ; 
And my lips are pale and earthy 

To go bathing from this brink. 
Since you heard them speak the last time, 

They have faded from their blooms. 
And the lavighter of my pastime 

Has learnt silence at the tombs. 



Ah, my friend! the antique drinkers 

Crowned the cup, and crowned the brow. 
Can I answer the old thinkers 

In the forms they thought of, now? 
Who Avill fetch from garden-closes 

Some new garlands whUe I speak, 
That the forehead, crowned with roses, 

May strike scarlet down the cheek? 
500 



ELIZABETH BAKRETT BROWNING. 

Do not mock me ! with my mortal, 

Suits no wreath again, indeed! 
I am sad-voiced as the turtle 

Which Anacreon used to feed ; 
Yet as that same bird demurely 

Wet her beak in cup of his, — 
So, without a garland, surely 

I may touch the brim of this. 

Go ! — let others praise the Chian ! — 

This is soft as Muses' string — 
This is tawny as Ehea's lion. 

This is rapid as its spring, — 
Bright as Paphia's eyes e'er met us, 

Light as ever trod her feet! 
And the brown bees of Hymettus 

Make their honey not so sweet. 

Very copious are my praises, 

Though I sip it like a fly! — 
Ah — but, sipping, — times and places 

Change before me suddenly — 
As Ulysses' old libation 

Drew the ghosts from every part. 
So your Cyprus wine, dear Grecian, 

Stirs the Hades of my heart. 

And I think of those long mornings 

Which my thought goes far to seek. 
When, betwixt the folio's turnings. 

Solemn flowed the rhythmic Greek. 
Past the pane, the mountain spreading. 

Swept the sheep-bell's tinkling noise, 
While a girlish voice was reading 

Somewhat low for ai^s and el's. 
501 



WINE OF CYPRUS. 

Then wliat golden hours were for us ! — 

While we sate together there, 
How the white vests of the chorus 

Seemed to wave up a live air ! 
How the cothurns trod majestic 

Down the deep iambic lines ; 
And the rolling anapcestic 

Curled like vapour over shrines ! 

Oh, our ^schylus, the thunderous! 

How he drove the bolted breath 
Through the cloud, to wedge it ponderous 

In the gnarled oak beneath. 
Oh, our Sophocles, the royal, 

Who was born to monarch's i^lace — 
And who made the whole world loyal, 

Less by kingly power than grace. 

Our Euripides, the human — 

With his droppings of warm tears ; 
And his touches of things common, 

Till they rose to touch the spheres! 
Our Theocritus, our Bion, 

And our Pindar's shining goals! — 
These were cup-bearers undying 

Of the wine that's meant for souls. 



And my Plato, the divine one, — 

If men know the gods aright 
By their motions, as they shine on 

With a glorious trail of light! — 
And your noble Christian bishops. 

Who mouthed grandly the last Greek; 
Though the sponges on their hyssops 

Were distent with wine — too weak. 
502 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 

Yet, your Chrysostom, you praised him, 

With his liberal mouth of gold ; 
And your Basil, you upraised him 

To the height of speakers old: 
And we both praised Heliodorus 

For his secret of pure lies ; — 
Who forged first his linked stories 

In the heat of ladies' eyes. 



Do you mind that deed of Ate 

Which you bound me to so fast, — 
Reading " De Virginitate," 

From the first line to the last? 
How I said at ending, solemn. 

As I turned and looked at you, 
That St. Simeon on the column 

Had had somewhat less to do? 



For we sometimes gently wrangled ; 

Very gently, be it said, — 
Since our thoughts were disentangled 

By no breaking of the thread! 
And I charged you with extortions 

On the nobler fames of old — 
Ay, and sometimes thought your Porsons 

Stained the purple they would fold. 



For tiie rest — a mystic moaning 

Kept Cassandra at the gate, 
With wild eyes the vision shone in — 

And wide nostrils scenting fate. 
And Prometheus, bound in passion 

By brute force to the blind stone. 
Showed us looks of invocation 

Turned to ocean and the sun. 
503 



WINE OF CYPRUS. 

And Medea we saw burning 

At her nature's planted stake ; 
And proud Qidipus fate-scorning 

While the cloud came on to break — 
While the cloud came on slow — slower, 

Till he stood discrowned, resigned! — 
But the reader's voice dropped loAver 

When the poet called him blind! 

Ah, my gossip! you were older, 

And moi'e learned, and a man! — 
Yet that shadow — the enfolder 

Of your quiet eyelids — ran 
Both our spirits to one level, 

And I tiu'ned from hill and lea, 
And the summer-sun's gi'een revel, — 

To your eyes that could not see. 

Now Christ bless you with the one light 

Which goes shining night and day! 
May the flowers which grow in sunlight 

Shed their fragrance m your way ! 
Is it not right to remember 

All your kindness, friend of mine, 
When we two sate in the chamber 

And the poets poured us wine? 



So, to come back to the drinking 

Of this Cj-prus, — it is well — 
But those memories, to my thinking, 

Make a better oenomel ; 
And whoever be the speaker. 

None can murmur with a sigh — 
That, in drinking from that beaker, 

I am sipping like a fly. 
504 




KINGSLEY. 
^Vthe three fishers. 

Three fishers went sailing down to the west, 

Away to the west as the sun went down ; 

Each thought of the woman who loved him the best, 

And the children stood watching them out of the town : 
For men must work, and women must weep, 
And here's little to earn, and many to keep. 

Though the harbour bar be moaning. 

Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower, 
And trimmed the lamps as the sun Avent down ; 
And they looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower. 
While the nigl^ rack came rolling up, ragged and brown ; 
But men must work, and women must weep, 
Though storms be sudden, and waters deep. 
And the harbour bar be moaning. 



Three corpses lie out on the shining sands, 
In the morning gleam as the tide went down. 
And the women are weeping and Avringing their hands, 

505 



THE SANDS OF DEE. 

For those who will never come home to the town. 
But men must work, and women must weep, 
And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep. 

And good-bye to the bar and its moaning. 



THE SANDS OF DEE. 

" Oh, Mary, go and call the cattle home, 
And call the cattle home. 
And call the cattle home, 
Across the sands o' Dee ;" 
The western >A'ind was Avild and dank wi foam. 
And all alone Avent she. 

The creeping tide came up along the sand. 
And o'er and o'er the sand, 
And round and round the sand, 
As far as eye could see ; 
The blinding mist came down and hid the land — 
And never home came she. 

" Oh, is it weed, or fish, or floatmg hair — 
A tress o' golden hair, 
O' drowned maiden's hair. 
Above the nets at sea? 
Was never salmon yet that shone so fair, 
Among the stakes on Dee." 

They rowed her in across th'B rolling foam. 
The cruel, crawling foam, 
The cruel, hungry foam, 
To her grave beside the sea : 
But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home. 
Across the sands o' Dee. 
50G 



KINGSLEY. 



THE DAY OF THE LORD. 

The Day of the Lord is at hand, at hand I 

Its storms roll up the sky : 
A nation sleeps starving on heaps of gold; 

All dreamers toss and sigh ; 
The night is darkest before the dawn — 
When the pain is sorest the child is born, 

And the Day of the Lord is at hand. 

Gather you, gather you, angels of God — 

Freedom, and Mercy, and Truth ; 
Come ! for the Earth is grown coward and old — 

Come down and renew us her youth. 
Wisdom, Self-sacrifice, Daring, and Love, 
Haste to the battle-field, stoop from above, 
To the Day of the Lord at hand. 

Gather you, gather you, hounds of hell — 

Famine, and Plague, and War ; 
Idleness, Bigotry, Cant, and jMisrule, 

Gather, and fall in the snare ! 
Hirelings and Mammonites, Pedants and Knaves, 
Crawl to the battle-field — sneak to your graves, 
In the Day of the Lord at hand. 

Who would sit down and sigh for a lost age of gold. 

Wilde the Lord of all ages is here? 
True hearts will leap up at the trumpet of God, 

Ajid those who can suffer, can dare. 
Each age of gold Avas an iron age too, 
And the meekest of saints may find stern work to do. 
In the Day of the Lord at hand. 
507 



AYTOUN. 

THE BURIAL-MARCH OF DUNDEE. 

I. 
Sound the fife, and cry the slogan — 

Let the pibroch shake the air 
With its wild triumphal music, 

Worthy of the freight we bear. 
Let the ancient hills of Scotland 

Hear once more the battle-song 
Swell within their glens and valleys 

As the clansmen march along! 
Never from the field of combat, 

Never from the deadly fray, 
Was a nobler trophy carried 

Than we bring with us to-day; 
Never since the valiant Douglas 

On his dauntless bosom bore 
Good King Robert's heart — the priceless- 

To our dear Redeemer's shore! 
Lo! we bring with us the hero — 

Lo! we bring the conquering Gra?me, 
Crowned as best beseems a victor 

From the altar of his fame ; 
Fresh and bleeding from the battle 

Wlience his spirit took its flight, 
Midst the crashing charge of squadrons, 

And the thunder of the fight! 
Strike, I say, the notes of triumph, 

As we march o'er moor and lea ! 
Is there any here will venture 

To bewail our dead Dundee? 
508 



AYTOUN. 

Let the widows of the traitors 

Weep until their eyes are dim ! 
Wail ye may full well for Scotland — 

Let none dare to mourn for him ! 
See! above his glorious body 

Lies the royal banner's fold — 
See ! his valiant blood is mingled 

With its crimson and its gold. 
See how calm he looks and stately, 

Like a warrior on his shiefd, 
Waiting till the flush of moi'ning 

Breaks along the battle-field ! 
See — Oh never more, my comrades. 

Shall we see that falcon eye 
Redden Avith its inward lightning. 

As the hour of fight drew nigh ! 
Never shall we hear the voice that. 

Clearer than the trumpet's call, 
Bade us strike for King and Country, 

Bade us win the field, or fall I 



On the heights of Killiecrankie 

Yester-morn our army lay : 
Slowly rose the mist in columns 

From the river's broken way; 
Hoarsely roared the swollen torrent, 

And the Pass was wrapped in gloom. 
When the clansmen rose together 

From their lair amidst the broom. 
Then we belted on our tartans, 

And our bonnets down we drew. 
And Ave felt our broadswords' edges, 

And Ave proved them to be true ; 
And Ave prayed the prayer of soldiers. 

And Ave cried the gathering-cry, 
509 



THE BURIAL-MAKCH OF DUNDEE. 

And we clasped the hands of kinsmen, 

And we swore to do or die ! 
Then our leader rode before us 

On his war-horse black as night — 
Well the Cameronian rebels 

Knew that charger in the light ! — 
And a cry of exultation 

From the bearded warriors rose ; 
For we loved the house of Claver'se, 

And we thought of good Montrose. 
But he raised his hand for silence — 

" Soldiers ! I have sworn a vow : 
Ere the evening star shall glisten 

On Schehallion's lofty brow, 
Either we shall rest in triumph, 

Or another of the Graemes 
Shall have died in battle-harness 

For his Country and Kuig James! 
Think upon the Royal Martyr — 

Think of what his race endure — 
Think on him whom butchers murder'd 

On the field of Magus Muir: — 
By his sacred blood I charge ye, 

By the ruined hearth and shrine — 
By the blighted hopes of Scotland, 

By your injuries and mine — 
Strike this day as if the anvU 

Lay beneath your blows the while, 
Be they Covenanting traitors. 

Or the brood of false Argyle! 
Strike ! and drive the trembling rebels 

Backwards o'er the stormy Forth ; 
Let them tell their pale Convention 

How they fared within the North. 
Let them tell that Highland honour 

Is not to be bought nor sold, 
That we scorn their prince's anger 
510 



AYTOUN. 

As we loathe his foreign gold. 
Strike ! and when the fight is over, 

If you look in vain for me, 
Where the dead are lying thickest 

Search for him that was Dundee !" 



Loudly then the hills re-echoed 

With our answer to his call, 
But a deeper echo sounded 

In the bosoms of us all. 
For the lands of wide Breadalbane, 

Not a man Avho heard him speak 
Would that day have left the battle. 

Burning eye and flushing cheek 
Told the clansmen's fierce emotion. 

And they harder drew their breath ; 
For theu' souls were strong within them, 

Stronger than the gi-asp of death. 
Soon we heard a challenge-trumpet 

Sounding in the Pass below. 
And the distant tramp of horses. 

And the voices of the foe ; 
Down we crouched amid the bracken, 

Till the Lowland ranks draw near. 
Panting like the hounds in summer. 

When they scent the stately deer. 
From the dark defile emerging, 

Next we saw the squadrons come, 
Leslie's foot and Leven's troopers 

Marching to the tuck of drum ; 
Through the scattered wood of birches. 

O'er the broken ground and heath. 
Wound the long battalion sloAvly, 

Till they gained the field beneath ; 
Then we bounded from our covert. — 
511 



THE BURIAL-MARCH OF DUNDEE. 

Judge how looked the Saxons then, 
When they saw the rugged mountain 

Start to life with armed men ! 
Like a tempest down the ridges 

Swept the hurricane of steel, 
Rose the slogan of Macdonald — 

Flashed the broadsword of Lochiel ! 
Vainly sped the withering volley 

'Mongst the foremost of our band — 
On we poured until we met them, 

Foot to foot, and hand to hand. 
Horse and man went down like drift-wood 

When the floods are black at Yule, 
And their carcasses are whirling 

In the Garry's deepest pool. 
Horse and man went down before us — 

Living foe there tarried none 
On the field of Killiecrankie, 

When that stubborn fight was done! 

IV. 

And the evening star was shining 

On Schehallion's distant head, 
Wlien we wiped our bloody broadswords, 

And returned to count the dead. 
There we found him gashed and gory. 

Stretched upon the cumbered plain, 
As he told us where to seek him, 

In the thickest of the slain. 
And a smile was on his visage, 

For within his dying ear 
Pealed the joyful note of triumph. 

And the clansmen's clamorous cheer : 
So, amidst the battle's thunder. 

Shot, and steel, and scorching flame. 
In the glory- of his manhood 

Passed the spirit of the Graeme! 
512 



AYTOUN. 



Open wide the vaults of Athol, 

Where the bones of lieroes rest — 
Open wide the hallowed portals 

To receive another guest! 
Last of Scots, and last of freemen — 

Last of all that dauntless race 
Who would rather die unsullied 

Than outlive the land's disgrace! 
O thou lion-hearted warrior! 

Reck not of the after-time : ~- 
Honour may be deemed dishonour, 

Loyalty be called a crime. 
Sleep in peace with kindred ashes 

Of the noble and the true, 
Hands that never failed their country. 

Hearts that never baseness knew. 
Sleep! — and till the latest trumpet 

Wakes the dead from earth and sea, 
Scotland shall not boast a braver 

Chieftain than our own Dundee! 



513 




DAVIS. 



THE SACK OF BALTIMORE. 



Baltimore is a sea-port in South Munster, and was plundered by a band of Algerines in the 
iiii;lit of June 20th, 1631, under the guidance of Ilackett, a Dungarvan fisherman. 



The summer sun is falling soft on Carb'ry's hundred isles, 

The summer sun is gleaming still through Gabriel's rough dcKles : 

Ohl Inisherkin's crumbled fane looks like a moulting bird. 

And ill a calm and sleepy swell the ocean tide is heard. 



DAVIS. 

The hookers lie upon the beach ; the chikh'cn cease their play ; 
The gossips leave the little inn ; the households kneel to pray, — 
And full of love, and peace, and rest — its daily labour o'er — 
Upon that cosy creek there lay the town of Baltimore. 

A deeper rest, a starry trance, has come with midnight there ; 
No sound, except that throbbing wave, in earth, or sea, or air. 
The massive capes and ruined towers seem conscious of the calm ; 
The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breathing heavy balm. 
So still the night, these two long barques, round Dunashad that glide 
Must trust their oars, methinks not few, against the ebbing-tide — 
Oh ! some sweet mission of true love must urge them to the shore — 
They bring some lover to his bride, who sighs in Baltimore ! 

All, all asleep within each roof along that rocky street, 

And these must be the lover's friends, with gently gliding feet — 

A stifled gasp ! a dreamy noise ! — " The roof is in a flame !" 

From out their beds, and to their doors, rush maid, and sire, and dame — 

And meet, upon the threshold stone, the gleaming sabre's fall, 

And o'er each black and bearded face the white or crimson shawl — 

The yell of "Allah" breaks above the prayer, and shriek, and roar — 

Oh, blessed God! the Algerine is lord of Baltimore! 

Then flung the youth his naked hand against the shearing SAA'ord ; 
Then sprung the mother on the brand with which her son was gor'd ; 
Then sunk the grandsire on the floor, his grand-babes clutching wild ; 
Then fled the maiden moaning faint, and nestled with the child ; 
But see yon pirate strangled lies, and crushed with splashing heel. 
AVTiile o'er him in an Irish hand there sweeps his Syrian steel — 
Though virtue sink, and courage fail, and misers yield their store, 
There's om hearth well avenged in the sack of Baltimore. 

Midsummer morn, in woodland nigh, the birds begin to sing — 
They see not now the milking maids, deserted is the spring ! 
Midsummer day — this gallant rides from distant Bandon's town, — 
These hookers crossed from stormy Skull, that skiff from Afl^adown : 

,'515 



THE SACK OF BALTIMOKE. 

Tliey only found the smoking walls, witli neighbours' blood besprent, 
And on the strewed and trampled beach awhile they wildly went, — 
Then dash'd to sea, and passed Cape Cleir, and saw five leagues before 
Tlie pirate galleys vanishing that ravaged Baltimore. 

Oh ! some must tug the galley's oar, and some must tend the steed, — 

This boy Avill bear a Sheik's chibouk, and that a Bey's jerreed. 

Oh ! some are for the arsenals, by beauteous Dardanelles ; 

And some are in the caravan to Mecca's sandy dells. 

The maid that Bandon gallant sought is chosen for the Dey — 

She's safe — she's dead — she stabb'd him in the midst of his Serai. 

And, when to die a death of fire, that noble maid they bore. 

She only smiled — O'Driscoll's child — she thought of Baltimore. 

'Tis two long years since sunk the town beneath that bloody band, 
And all around its trampled hearths a larger concourse stand, 
Where, high upon a gallows-tree, a yelling wretch is seen — 
'Tis Hackett of Dungarvan, — he, who steered the Algerine! 
He fell amid a sullen shout, with scarce a passing prayei-. 
For he had slain the kith and kin of many a hundred there — 
Some muttered of Mac Morrogh, who had brought the Norman o'er — 
Some curs'd him with Iscariot, that day in Baltimore. 



.516 




'i,r>.'. 



BULWER LYTTON. 



EVA. 



TUE MAIDEN'S HOME. 



A COTTAGE in a peaceful vale ; 

A jasmine round the door ; 
A hill to shelter from the gale; 

A silver brook before. 

517 



EVA. 

Oh, sweet the jasmine's bnds of snoAv. 

In mornings soft with May; 
Oh, silver-clear the waves that flow, 

Eeflecting heaven, away ! 
A sweeter bloom to Eva's youth 

Rejoicing Nature gave ; 
And heaven was mirror' d in her truth 

More clear than on the wave. 
Oft to that lone sequester' d place 

My boyish steps would roam, 
There was a look in Eva's face 

That seem'd a smile of home. 
And oft I paused to hear at noon 

A voice that sang for glee : 
Or mark the white neck glancing down, 

The book upon the knee. 

THE IDIOT BOY. 

Who stands between thee and the sun ? — 
A cloud himself, — the Wandering One ! 
A vacant "wonder in the eyes, — 

The mind, a blank, unwritten scroll ; — 
The light was in the laughing skies, 

And darkness in the Idiot's soul. 
He touch'd the book upon her knee — 

He look'd into her gentle face — 
"Thou dost not tremble, maid, to see 
-Poor Arthur by thy dwelling-place. 
I know not why, but where I pass 

The aged turn away ; 
And if my shadow vex the grass. 

The children cease from play. 
My only playmates are the wind, 

The blossom on the bough ! 
"Why are thy looks so soft and kind? 

Thou dost not tremble — thou !'" 
518 



BULWER LYTTON. 

Though none were by, she trembled not, — 
Too meek to wound, too good to fear liiiii : 

And, as he linger'd on the ppot, 

She hid the tears that gush'd to hear him. 

THE YOUNG TEACHER. 

Of wonders on the land and deeps 

She spoke, and glories in the sky — 
The eternal life the Father keeps 

For those, who learn from Him to die. 
So simply did the maiden speak — 

So simply and so earnestly. 
You saw the light begin to break, 

And Soul the Heaven to see ; 
You saw how slowly, day by day, 
The darksome waters caught the ray, 
Confused and broken — come and gone — 

The beams as yet uncertain are. 
But still the billows murmur on, 

And struggle for the star. 

THE STRAXGER-SUITOK. 

There came to Eva's maiden home 

A Stranger from a sunnier clime ; 
The lore that Hellas taught to Rome, 

The wealth that Wisdom wins from Time, 
Which ever, in its ebb and flow. 

Heaves to the seeker on the shore 
The waifs of glorious wTCcks beloAv, 

The argosies of yore ; — 
Each gem that in that dark profound 

The Past the Student's soul can find, 
Shone from his thought, and sparkled round 

The Enchanted Palace of the Mind. 
HoAV trustful in the leafy June, 

She roved with him llic lonely vah' ; 




How trustful by the tender moon, 

She blush' cl to hear a tenderer tale. 
O happy Earth ! the dawn revives, 

Day after day, each drooping flower — 
Time to the heart once only gives 

The joyous Morning-hour. 
" To him — oh, wilt thou pledge thy youth, 

For whom the world's false bloom is o'er? 
520 



BULWER LYTTON. 

My heart shall haven in thy truth, 

And tempt the faithless wave no more." 

Her hand lay trembling on his arm, 

Averted giow'd the happy face; 
A softer hue, a mightier charm, 

Grew mellowing o'er the hour — the place; 
Along the breathing woodlands moved 

A presence dream-like and divine — 
How SAveet to love and be beloved. 

To lean upon a heart that's thine ! 
Silence was o'er the earth and sky — 

By silence Love is answer'd best — 
Her answer was the downcast eye. 

The rose-cheek pillow'd on his breast. 

What rustles through the moonlit brake? 

"What sudden spectre meets their gaze? 
What face, the hues of life forsake, 

Gleams ghost-like in the ghostly rays'? 
You might have heard his heart that beat, 

So heaving rose its heavy swell — 
No more the Idiot — at her feet 

The Dark One, roused to reason, fell. 
Loosed the last link that thrall'd the thought, 

The lightning broke upon the blind — 
The jealous love the cure had wrought, 

The Heart in Avaking woke the Mind. 

THE HERMIT. 

Years fly; beneath the yew-tree's shade, 

Thy father's holy dust is laid ; 

The brook glides on, the jasmine blows ; 

But where art thou, the wandering Avife ? 
And what the bliss, and what the woes, 

Glass'd in the mirror-sleep of life? 
521 



EVA. 

Foi- whether life may laugh or weep, 
Death the true waking — life the sleep. 
\Y]\o tenants thy forsaken cot — 

Who tends thy childhood's favourite flower,' 
Who wakes, from every haunted spot, 

The Ghosts of buried Hours? 
'Tis He whose sense was doom'd to borrow 
From thee the Vision and the Sorrow — 
To whom the Reason's golden ray, 

In storms that rent the heart, was given ; 
The peal that burst the clouds away 

Left clear the face of heaven! 
And wealth Avas his, and gentle bii-th, 

A form in fair proportions cast ; 
But lonely still he walk'd the earth — 

The Hermit of the Past. 
It was not love — that dream was o'er! 

No stormy grief, no wild emotion ; 
For oft, what once was love of yore, 

The memory soothes into devotion ! 
He bought the cot : — The garden flowers — 

The haunts his Eva's steps had trod, 
Books — thought — beguiled the lonely hours, 

That flow'd in peaceful waves to God. 

DESERTION. 

She sits, a Statue of Despair, 

In that far land, by that bright sea ; 
She sits, a Statue of Despair, 

Whose smile an Angel's seem'd to be. 
She knows it all — the hideous tale — 

The A\Tong, the perjury, and the shame ; — 
Before the bride had left her veil. 

Another bore the nuptial name. 
The infant woke from feverish rest — 

Its smile she sees, its voice she hears — 
522 




The marble lacUed from the breast, 
And all the Mother gush'd in tears. 



THE RETUKX. 



The cottage in the peaceful vale, 
The jasmine round the door, 

The hill still shelters from the gale, 
The brook still glides befoi'C. 



EVA. 

Without the porch, one summer noon. 

The Hermit-dweller see ! 
In musing silence bending down. 

The book upon his knee. 
Who stands between thee and the sun? — 
A cloud herself, — the Wand'ring One ! — 
A vacant sadness m the eyes, 

The mind a razed, defeatured scroll ; 
The light is in the laughing skies. 

And darkness, Eva, in thy soul ! 
Yet still the native instinct stirr'd 

The darkness of the breast — 
She flies, as flies the wounded bird 

Unto the distant nest; 
O'er hill and waste, from land to land, 

Her heart the faithful instinct bore; 
And there, behold the "Wanderer stand 

Beside her Childhood's Home once more! 



LIGHT AND DARKNESS. 

When earth is fair, and winds are still. 
When sunset gilds the western hill. 
Oft by the porch, with jasmine sweet, 
Or by the brook, with noiseless feet. 

Two silent forms are seen ; 
So silent they — the place so lone — 
They seem like souls, when life is gone, 

That haunt where life has been : 
And his to watch, as in the past 

Her soul had watch'd his soul. 
Alas ! her darkness waits the last. 

The grave the only goal ! 
It is not what the leech can cure — 

An erring chord, a jarring madness: 
A calm so deep, it must endure — 

So deep, thou scarce canst call it sadness; 
524 



BULWER LYTTON. 

A summer night, whose shadow falls 

On silent hearths in ruin'd halls. 

Yet, through the gloom, she seem'd to feel 

His presence like a happier air; 
Close by his side she loved to steal, 

As if no ill could harm her there ! 
And when her looks his own would seek, 

Some memory seem'd to wake the sigh, 
Strive for kind words she could not speak, 

And bless him in the tearful eye. 

() sweet the jasmine's buds of snow, 

In mornings soft with May, 
And silver-clear the waves that floAv 

To shoreless deeps away; 
But heavenward from the faithful heart 

A sweeter incense stole ; — 
The onward waves their source desert, 

But Soul returns to Soul ! 



525 




PROCTER. 



\the history of a life. 



Day dawned: — Within a curtained room.. 
FiUed to faintness with perfume, 
A lady lay at point of doom. 
526 



PROCTER. 

Day closed: — A Child had seen the lijijht ; 
But for the lady, fair and bright, 
She rested in undreaming night. 

Spring rose: — The lady's grave was green 
And near it oftentimes was seen 
A gentle Boy, with thoughtful mien. 

Years fled: — He wore a manly face, 
And struggled in the world's rough race, 
And won, at last, a lofty place. 

And then — ^lie died! Behold, before ye, 

Humanity's poor sum and story; 

life — Death, — and all that is of Glory. 



WITHIN AND WITHOUT. 



WITHOUT. 

The winds are bitter ; the skies arc wild ; 

From the roof comes plunging the drowning i-ain 
Without, — in. tatters, the world's poor child 

Sobbeth abroad her grief, her pain! 
No one heareth her, no one hcedeth hci- : 

But Hunger, her friend, with his bony hand 
Grasps her throat, whispering huskily — 

"What dost Thou in a Christian land?" 
527 




WITHIN. 



The skies are vnlA, and the blast is cold ; 

Yet riot and luxury brawl within: 
Slaves are waiting, in silver and gold, 

Waiting the nod of a child of sin. 
The fire is crackling, wine is bubbling 

Up in each glass to its beaded brim: 
The jesters are laughing, the parasites quaffing 

"Happiness," — "honour," — and all for him/ 



PEOCTEE; 



WITHOUT. 



She who is slain in the winter weather, 

Ah ! she once had a vUhvge fame ; 
Listened to love on the moonlit heather; 

Had gentleness — vanity — maiden shame; 
Noiv, her allies are the tempest howling ; 

Prodigals' curses ; self-disdain ; 
Poverty; misery: Well, — no matter; 

There is an end unto every pain ! 



Pie who yon lordly feast enjoyeth, 

He who doth rest on his couch of down. 

He it was, who threw the forsaken 

Under the feet of the trampling town : 

Liar — betrayer, — false as cruel. 
What is the doom for his dastard sin? 

His peers, they scorn ? — high dames, they shun him ? 
— Unbar yon palace, and gaze within. 

There, — ^yet his deeds are all trumpet-sounded, 

There, upon sUken seats recline 
Maidens as fau' as the summer morning, 

Watching him rise from the sparkling wine. 
Mothers all proffer their stainless daughters ; 

Men of high honour salute him " Friend ;" 
Skies! oh, where are your cleansing waters? 

World ! oh, where do thy ^^■ouder3 end ? 



529 




ATHERSTONE. 



BATTLE SCENES. 



O'er all the plain th' Assyi-ian cami5-fires now 
Blaze high ; and with the darkness a drear red 
Strangely commingle. Like a burning gulf, 
Sleeping till stirr'd by winds ; the heaving mass 
Of warriors at the mountain's foot appears ; 
Breast-plates, and shields, and helms, and gonfalons, 
Glow blood-red here and there ; but doubly dark 
Elsewhere the night. Now, toward the hills all haste 
If Medes alone, or with Assyrians mixed, 
I cannot know ; but rapid is the speed. 
The light increases : up the mountain's side, 
630 



ATHERSTONE. 

In the red darkness faintly I discern 
The slumbering myriads ; and .toward its foot 
Onward they come ; like billows of dark fire. 
But farther off, in one bright blaze, the camp 
Shines out : a countless multitude I see. 
In flaming armour pouring o'er the plain. 
Like ocean glittering 'neath the ruddy sun, 
The wide field flashes ; like the ocean's roai" 
Their clamours rise. 

Among the trees a crash 
I hear, — a heaving of the branches. Lights 
Are thickening near the hill. Ha ! now I see 
They rend the boughs for torches. In liLs hand 
Each soldier bears a branch of blazing pine. 
They speed toward the heights: they shake the torch 
They wave the sword: like running flame they seem. 
Now up the steep they urge. A cloud of darts 
And arrows from the Medes upon them pours, — 
A fiery cloud ; and stones are hurled — and spears ; — 
Yet upward still they come. The watch-fires now 
Are flaming on the hills : distinctly gleams 
The battle forth. Their torches they cast down ; 
Not needed now. Ha ! by his star-like helm, 
Assyria's king appears. He shouts: he flies: 
He points towards the rocks ; — he waves them on. 
A warrior meets him: sword with sword they fight— 
Arabia's monarch, sure. — But both are lost, — 
The waves of fight roll o'er them — 



Meantime, along the sapphire bridge of heaven, 
Far, far beyond the canopy of cloud 
That mantled earth, the day-god's lightning steeds 
Through the pure ether rapt his chariot-wheels, 
Sounding harmonious thunder. To the height 
They had ascended ; and the steep decline 
Half-way had measured ; yet the liard-fought field 



BATTLE SCENES. 

Still was contested ; for, like men resolved 

On that one day to peril all to come — 

To die, perchance, but never to submit — 

The Assyrian captains strove ; and, Avith like fire, 

Their soldiers' hearts inflamed. Aid too had come — 

Chariots, and horse, and foot; who, when the scale, 

Charged with Assyria's doom, was sinking fast, 

Twice had its fall arrested. Once again, 

When seemed that utter ruin hovered nigh, 

The chariot of Assyria's beauteous queen 

From rank to rank flew on : and, as they saw, 

The warriors' breasts, as with new soul infused, 

Like beacons freshly kindled, burst at once 

Into intensest flame. Unhelmed, unarmed. 

Her ebon hair loose flying in the wind, 

She raised aloft her arms, her voice uplift, 

And bade them on to glory. As the star 

Of morning, while the sun yet sleeps below, 

And the grey mist is on the dewy earth. 

Her face was pale and radiant. Like a shape 

From heaven descended, and to mortal harm 

Impassive, gloriously and fearlessly 

Through the death-laden air she flew along. 

Her spirit fired the host ; with deafening shouts 

Onward they bore ; and, for a time, the Medes 

Compelled, though slowly, backward. 



532 



MAEY HOWITT. 

THE BALLAD OF RICHARD BURNELL. 

Part I. 

From his bed rose Richard Burnell 

At the early dawn of day, 
Ere the bells of London city 

Welcomed in the morn of May. 

Early on that bright May morning 
Kose the young man from his bed, 

He, the happiest man in London, 
And thus to himself he said : — 

" ' When the men and maids are dancing. 
And the folk are mad with glee, 

In the Temple's shady gardens 
Let me walk and talk with thee !' 

"Thus my Alice spake last even. 
Thus with trembling lips she spake, 

And those blissful words have kept me 
Through the live-long night awake. 

" 'Tis a joy beyond expression. 
When we first, in truth, perceive 

That the love we long have cherished 
Will not our fond hearts deceive! 
533 




" Never dared I to confess it — 
Deeds of homage spoke instead ; 

True love is its own revealer, 
She must know it ! oft I said. 

" All my words, and all my actions, 
But one meaning could impart ; 

Love can love's least sign interpret, 
And she reads my inmost heart. 



'• And her good old merchant father, - 
Father he has been to me — 

Saw the love grow up between us, 
Saw — and was well pleased to sec. 
534 



MARY HOWITT. 

"Seven years I truly served him, 

Now my time is at an end ; 
Master is he now no longer : 

Father will be — has been friend. 

"I was left betimes an orphan, 
Pleir unto great merchant-wealth, 

But the iron rule of kinsfolk 

Dimmed my youth, and sapped my health. 

"Death had been my eariy portion 
Had not my good guardian come ; 

He, the father of my Alice, 
And conveyed me to his home. 

"Here began a new existence, — 
Then how new the love of friends! 

And for all the child's afflictions 
Each one strove to make amends. 

"Late my spring-time came, but quickly 

Youth's rejoicing currents run. 
And my inner life unfolded 

Like a flower before the sun. 



"Hopes, and aims, and aspirations 
Grew withhi the gro^\'ing boy ; 

Life had new interpretation ; 

Manhood brought increase of joy. 

" In and over all was Alice, 
Life-infusing, like the spring ; 

My soul's soul ! even joy without her 
Was a poor and barren thing ! 
535 



THE BALLAD OF RICHARD BURNELL. 

''And she spoke last eve at parting, 
'When the folk are mad with glee, 

In the Temple's pleasant gardens 
Let me walk and talk with thee !' 

"As she spoke, her sweet voice trembled, - 
Love such tender tones can teach ! 

And those words have kept me waking, 
And the maimer of her speech ! 

"For such manner has deep meaning," 
Said young Burnell, blithe and gay: — 

And the bells of London city 
Pealed a welcome to the May. 



pakt n. 



^VTiilst the folk were mad with pleasure, 
'Neath the elm-tree's vernal shade, 

In the Temple's quiet gardens 

Walked the young man and the maid. 

On his arm her hand Avas resting. 
And her eyes were on the ground; 

She was speaking, he was silent ; 
Not a word his tongue had found. 

"Friend beloved," she thus addressed him, 
"I have faith and hope in thee! 

Tliou canst do what no one else can — 
Thou canst be a friend to me ! 
536 



MARY HOWITT. 

" Richard, we have lived together 
All these years of happy youth ; 

Have, as sister and as brother. 
Lived in confidence and truth. 

•'Thou from me hast hid no feelings. 
Thy vv^hole heart to me is known ; 

I — I only have kept from thee 
One dear, little thought alone. 

''Have I vsTonged thee in so doino-? 

Then forgive me! But give ear; 
'Tis to bare my heart before thee 

That I now am with thee here. 

" Well thou know'st my father loves thee ; 

'Tis his wish that we should wed, — 
1 shame not to speak thus frankly — 

Wish, or ivill more justly said. 

'•JJut this cannot be, my brother. 

Cannot be — 'twere nature's wrong! — 

I have said so to my father; 

But thou know'st his will is strong." 

Not a word spake Eichard Burnell; 

Not a word came to his lips; 
Like one tranced he stood and listened; 

Life to him was in eclipse. 

In a lower tone she murmured, 
Murmured like a brooding dove, 

•' Know thou, — Leonard Woodvil loves me,- 
And — that he has won my love." 



THE BALLAD OF RICHARD BURNELL. 

— Came a pause. The words she uttered 
Seemed to turn him mto stone ; 

Pale he stood and mute beside her, 
And with blushes she went on. 

"This is known unto my father; — 
Leonard is well known to thee, 

Thou hast praised him, praised him often- 
Oh, how dear such praise to me ! 

"But my father, stern and steadfast, 
Will not list to Leonard's prayer : — 

And 'tis only thou canst move him, — 
Only thou so much canst dare. 

"Tell my father firmly, freely, 
That we only love each other — 

"Tis the truth, thou know'st it, Eichard, — 
As a sister and a brother! 

"Tell my father, if Ave wedded, 
Thou and I, it would be guilt! 

Thus it is that thou canst aid us — 
And thou wilt — I know thou wilt! 

"Yes, 'tis thus that thou must aid us. 
And thou wilt ! I say no more ! — 

We've been friends, but this will make us 
Better friends than heretofore!" 



Yet some moments he was silent; 

His good heart was well-nigh broke; 
She Avas blinded to his anguish ; — 

And "I Avill!" at length he spoke. 

538 



MARY HOWITT. 



Part III. 



They were wecldecl. 'Twas a wedding 

That had fai' and high renown, 
And from morning until even 

Rang the bells of London town. 

Time Avent on: the good old merchant 

Wore a cloud upon his brow : 
"Wherefore thus"?" his friends addressed him, 

"No man should be blithe as thou!" 



" In my old age I am lonely," 

Said the merchant, " she is gone ; — 

And young Burnell, he I nurtured, 
He who was to me a son ; 

"He has left me! — I'm deserted — 
E'en an old man feels such woe ! 

'Twas but natural she should marry, 
But he should not have served me so. 

" 'Twas not that which I expected ! 

He was very dear to me, — 
And I thought no London merchant 

Would have stood as high as he ! 

" He gi'ew very strange and moody, 
Wliat the cause I cannot say ; — 

And he left me when my daughter. 
My poor Alice, went away! 
539 




" I had been a father to him. 

He to me was like a son : 
Young folks should have more reflection, 

'Twas what / could not have done ! 



"True, he -vvTites me duteous letters; 

Calls me father, tells me all 
That in foreign parts is doing, — 

But young people wi'ite so small. 
640 



MAKY HOWITT. 

"That I'm often forced to leave them, 
Pleasant letters though they be, 

Until Alice comes from Richmond, 
Then she reads them out to me. 

" Alice fain would have me with her ; 

Leonard Avell deserves my praise — 
But he's not my Richard Burnell, 

Knows not my old wants and ways ! 

"No, my friends, I'll not deny it, 

It has cut me to the heart. 
That the son of my adoption 

Thus has played a cruel part !" 

So the merchant mourned and murmured 
And all foreign charms unheeding. 

Dwelt the lonely Richard Burnell, 
With his bruised heart still bleeding. 



Paet IV. 



Time went on, and in the spring-tide, 
When the bu'ds began to build. 

And the heart of all creation 
With a vast delight was filled, 

Came a letter unto Alice — 

Then a babe lay on her breast — 

'Twas the first which Richard Burnell 
Unto Alice had addressed. 
541 



THE BALLAD OF EICHAED BURNELL. 

Few the words Avliich it contained, 
But each word was like a .«igh ; 

"I am sick and very lonely; — 
Let me see thee ere I die ! 

" In this time of tribidation 
Thou wilt be a friend to me : 

Therefore in the Temple Gardens 
Let me once more speak with thee." 

Once more in the Temple Gardens 
Sat they 'neath the bright blue sky, 

With the leafage thick around them, 
And the river rolling by. 

Pale and weak was Eichard Burnell, 
Gone all merely outward grace, 

Yet the stamp of meek endurance 
Gave sad beauty to his face. 

Silent by his side sat Alice, 

Now no word her tongue could speak. 
All her soul was steeped in pity. 

And large tears were on her check. 

Burnell spake: ''Within these Gardens 
Thy commands on me were laid. 

And, although my heart Avas breaking. 
Yet were those commands obeved. 



" What I suffered no one knoweth, 
Nor shall know, I proudly said. 

And, when grew the grief too mighty. 
Then — there was no help — I fled. 
rA2 



MARY HOWITT. 

•'Yes, I loved thee, long had loved thee, 

And alone the God above, 
He, who at that time sustained me. 

Knows the measure of my love ! 

''Do not let these words displease thee; 

Life's sore battle soon will cease; 
I have fallen amid the conflict, 

But within my soul is peace. 

"It has been a fiery trial, 
But the fiercest pang is past ; 

Once more I am come amongst you — 
Oh! stand by me at the last! 

"Leonard will at times come to mo, 

And thy father. I will try 
To be cheerful in his presence, 

As I was in days gone by. 

"Bitter has it been to leave him; 

But in all my heart's distress, 
The great anguish which consumed me 

Seemed to swallow up the less. 

"Let me go! my soul is wearied, 
No fond heart of me has need, 

Life has no more duties for me; — 
I am but a broken reed ! 

"Let me go, ere courage faileth, 
Gazing, gazing thus on thee! — 

But in life's last awful moment, 
Alice! thou wilt stand by me!" 
543 



THE BALLAD OF EICHAKD BURNELL. 

From her seat rose Alice Woodvil, 
And in steadfast tones began, 

Like a strong consoling angel, 
To address the dying man. 

"Not in death alone, my brother. 
Would I aid thee in the strife ; 

I would fain be thy sustainer 
In the fiercer fight of life. 



" With the help of God, thy spirit 
Shall not in this conflict yield; 

Prayer, the key which opens heaven, 
Is the Christian's sword and shield. 



"God will aid thee! We will hold thee 
By our love ! — thou shalt not go ! — 

And from out thy wounded spirit. 
We will pluck the thorns of avoc. 

" Say not life has no more duties 

Which can claim thee ! Where are then 

All the sinners; the neglected; 
All the weeping sons of men 1 

"Ah, my friend, hast thou forgotten 
All our dreams of early days? 

How we would instruct poor children, 
How we would the fallen raise ! 

" God has not to me permitted 
Such great work of human love ; 

He has marked me out a lower 
Path of duty where to move. 
544 



MARY IIOWITT. 

" But to thee, His chosen servant, 

Is this higher lot allowed ; 
He has brought thee through deep waters, 

Through the furnace, through the cloud 

" He has made of thee a mourner. 
Like the Christ, that thou may'st rise 

To a purer height of glory, 
Through the pangs of sacrifice! 

" 'Tis alone of His appointing. 

That thy feet on thorns have trod; 

Suffering, woe, renunciation. 
Only bring us nearer God. 

"And when nearest Him, then largest 
The enfranchised heart's embrace : — 

It was Christ, the Man rejected, 
Who redeemed the human race. 

" Say not, then, thou hast no duties ; — 
Friendless outcasts on thee call. 

And the sick and the afflicted, 
And the children, more than all. 

''Oh, my friend, rise up, and follow 
Where the hand of God shall lead ; 

He has brought thee through affliction, 
But to fit thee for His need !" 

Thus she spoke ; and as from midnight 

Springs the opal-tinted morn, 
So, within his di'eary spirit, 

A new day of life was born. 
r>ir> 




Strength sublime may rise from weakness. 
Groans be turned to songs of praise, 

Nor are life's divinest labours 
Only told by length of days. 



Young he died : but deeds of mercy 
Beautified his life's short span, 

And he left his worldly substance 
To complete what he began. 
546 



ARNOLD. 



TO A GIPSY CHILD BY THE SHORE. 

DOUGLAS, ISLE OF MAN. 

CWho taught this pleading to unpractis'd eyes? 

Who hid such import in an infant's gloom? 
Cwho lent thee, child, this meditative guise? 

What clouds thy forehead, and fore-dates thy doom? 

Lo ! sails that gleam a moment and are gone ; 

The swinging waters, and the cluster' d pier. 
Not idly Earth and Ocean labour on, 

Nor idly do these sea-birds hover near. 

But thou whom superfluity of joy 

Wafts not from thine own thoughts, nor longings vain. 
Nor v/eariness, the full fed soul's annoy; 

Remaining in thy hunger and thy pain: 

Thou, drugging pain by patience ; half averse 

From thine own mother's breast, that knows not tlieo, ; 

'With eyes that sought thine eyes thou didst converse, 
And that soul-searching vision fell on me. 

/Glooms that go deep as thine I have not known : 
Moods of fantastic sadness, nothing worth. 

Why sorrow and thy calmness are thine own : 
Glooms that enhance and glorify this earth. 

What mood wears like complexion to thy woe? — 
His, who in mountain glens, at noon of day, 

Sits rapt, and hears the battle break below? — 
Ah ! thine was not the shelter, but the fray. 



TO A GIPSY CHILD BY THE SHORE. 

What exile'?, changing bitter thoughts with gU\d ? 

^Yllat seraph's, in some alien planet born ? — 
No exile's dream was ever half so sad, 

Xor any angel's sorrow so forlorn. 

Is the calm thme of stoic souls, who weigh 
Life well, and find it wanting, nor deplore : 

But in disdainful silence turn away. 

Stand mute, self-centred, stern, and dream no more? 

Or do I wait, to hear some gi'ay-hair'd king 

Unravel all his many-colour'd lore : 
"Whose mind hath kno^^•n all arts of governing, 

Mus'd much, lov'd life a little, loatli'd it more? 

Down the pale cheek long lines of shadow slope, 

"NMiich years, and curious thought, and suffering give — 

Thou hast forekuo\\Ti the vanity of hope. 
Foreseen thy harvest — ^yet proceed'st to live. 

meek anticipant of that sure pain 

TVliose sureness gi'ay-haii''d scholars hardly learn ! 
"\Miat wonder shall time breed, to swell thy sti*ain? 

What heavens, what earth, what suns shalt thou discern ? 

Ere the long night Aviiose stillness brooks no star. 
Match that funereal aspect with her pall, 

1 think, thou -sxilt have fathom'd life too far, 
Have knoTATi too much — or else forgotten all. 

The Guide of our dark steps a triple veil 
Betwixt our senses and our sorrow keeps : 

Hath sowTi with cloudless passages the tale 
Of grief, and eas'd us with a thousand sleeps. 

Ah I not the nectarous poppy lovers use. 

Not daily labour's dull, Lethivan spring, 
Obli%-ion in lost angels can infuse 

Of the soil'd glory, and the trailing wing; 
-AS 



ARNOLD. 

And though thou glean, what strenuous gleaners may, 
In the throng'd fields where winning comes by strife ; 

And though the just sun gild, as all men pray. 
Some reaches of thy storm-vext stream of life ; 

Tliough that blank sunshine blind thee ; though the cloud 
That sever' d the world's march and thme is gone : 

Though ease dulls grace, and Wisdom be too proud 
To halve a lodging that was all her own : 

Once ere the day decline, thou shalt discern. 
Oh once, ere night, in thy success, thy chain : 

Ere the long evening close, thou shalt return, 
And wear this majesty of grief again. 



649 



BENNETT. 



BABY'S SHOES. 

On, those little, those little blue shoes! 

Those shoes that no little feet use. 
Oh, the price were high 
That those shoes would bur. 

Those little blue unused shoes! 

For they hold the small shape of feet 
That no more their mother's ejes meet, 

That, by God's good will, 

Years since grew still, 
And ceased from their totter so sweet. 

And oh, since that baby, slept. 

So hushed, how the mother has kept, 

With a tearful pleasure, 

That little dear treasure, 
And over them thought and Avept ! 

For they mind her for evermore 
Of a patter along the floor ; 

And blue eyes she see? 

Look up from her knees 
With the look that in life they wore. 

As they lie before her there, 
There babbles from chair to chair 
A little sweet face 
That's a gleam in the place, 
Wit!) its little gold curls of hair. 
650 



BENNETT. 

Then, oh, wonder not that her heart 
From all else would rather part 

Than those tiny blue shoes 

That no little feet use, 
And whose sisiht makes such fond tears start ! 



LILIAN'S EPITAPH. 

Tiiou hast been and thou hast fled, 

Eose, sweet rose ; 
Budded, flushed, and, ah ! art dead, 

Eose, sweet rose ; 
Yet oblivion may not kill 
Dreams of thee, our thoughts that fill. 
And for us thou'rt blooming still, 

Eose, sweet rose. 

Breathing rose, nor might'st thou sta} , 

Eose, sweet rose ; 
Tliou too, woe! hast passed away, 

Eose, sweet rose ; 
Yet though death had heart to sever 
Life and thee, thou'rt from us never ; 
No, in thought thou'rt with us ever, 

Eose, sweet rose. 



'.r>i 



ALEXANDER SMITH. 

SCENE — THE BAXKS OF A RIVER. 
'Tis that loveliest stream. 



I've learned by heart its sweet and devious course' 

By frequent tracing, as a lover learns 

The features of his best beloved's face. 

In memory it runs, a shining thread. 

With sunsets strung upon it thick, like pearls. 

From yonder trees I've seen tlie western sky 

All washed with fire, while, in the midst, the sun 

Beat like a pulse, welling at ev'ry beat 

A spreading wave of light. "Where yonder church 

Stands up to heaven, as if to intercede 

For sinful hamlets scatter'd at its feet, 

I saw the dreariest sight. The sun was down, 

And all the west was paved with sullen fire. 

I cried, " Behold ! the barren beach of hell 

At ebb tide." The ghost of one bright hour 

Comes from its grave and stands before me now. 

'Twas at the close of a long summer day, 

As we were sitting on yon grassy slope. 

The sunset hung before us like a dream 

That shakes a demon in his fiery lair ; 

The clouds were standing round the setting sun 

Like gaping caves, fantastic pinnacles, 

Citadels throbbing in their own fierce light, 

Tall spires that came and went like spires of flame. 

Cliffs quivering Avith fire-snow, and peaks 

Of piled gorgeousness, and rocks of fire 

A-tilt and poised, bare beaches, crimson seas — 

All these were huddled in that dreadful west. 

All shook and trembled in unsteadfast light, 




And from the centre blazed tlic an«iry sun, 
Stem as tlic unlash'd eye of God a-glare 
O'er evening city with its boom of sin. 
I do remember, as we journeyed home, 
(That dreadful sunset burnt into our brains,) 
"With what a soothing came the naked moon. 
She, like a swimmer who has found his ground. 
Came rippling up a silver strand of cloud, 
553 



PICTURES. 

And lilungcd from the other side into the night. 

I and that friend, the feeder of my soul, 

Did ^^-auder up and down these banks for years, 

Talking of blessed hopes and holy faiths, 

How sm and weeping all should pass aAvay 

In the calm sunshine of the earth's old ao-e. 

Breezes are blowing in old Chaucer's verse; 

'Twas here we drank them. Here for hours we hung 

O'er the fine pants and trembles of a line. 

Oft, standing on a hill's green head, we felt 

Breezes of love, and joy, and melody, 

Blow through us, as the winds blow through the sky. 

Oft with our souls in our eyes all day we fed 

On summer landscapes, silver-veined with streams, 

O'er which the air hung silent in its joy; 

With a great city lying in its smoke, 

A monster sleeping in its OAvn thick breath; 

And surgy plains of wheat, and ancient woods 

In the calm evenings cawed by clouds of rooks, 

Acres of moss, and long black strips of firs. 

And sweet cots dropt in green, where children played, 

To us unheard; till, gradual, all Avas lost 

In distance-haze to a blue rim of hills, 

Upon whose heads came down the closing sky. 



PICTURES. 



The lark is singing in the blinding sky, 
Hedges are white with May. The bridegroom sea 
Is toying with the shore, his wedded bride, 
And, in the fulness of his marriage joy, 
He decorates her tawny brow with shells, 
554 




^ 



^ 





#i 



Ketires a space, to sec liow fair she looks. 
Then, proud, runs up to kiss her. All is Caii'- 
All glnd, from grass to sun 



PICTURES. 



— One nymph slumbering lay, 
A sweet dream 'neath her eyelids, her white limbs 
Sinking full softly in the violets dim; 
When timbrelled troops rushed past with branches green. 
One in each fountain, riched with golden sands, 
With her delicious face a moment seen, 
And limbs faint gleaming through their watery veil. 



— A grim old king, 
Whose blood leapt madly when the trumpets brayed 
To joyous battle 'mid a storm of steeds. 
Won a rich kingdom on a battle-day; 
But in the sunset he was ebbing fast, 
Ringed by his weeping lords. Plis left hand held 
His white steed, to the belly splashed with blood. 
That seemed to mourn him with his drooping head ; 
His right, his broken brand ; and in his ear 
His old victorious banners flap the winds. 
He called his faithful herald to his side — 
"Go! tell the dead I come!" With a proud smile. 
The warrior with a stab let out his soul, 
WTiich fled, and shrieked through all the other world, 
" Ye dead ! My master comes !" And there was pause 
Till the great Shade should enter. 



556 




BAILEY. 



A SUMMER NIGHT. 



The last high upward slant of sun on the trees, 
Like a dead soldier's sword upon his pall, 
Scorns to console earth for the glory gone. 
V^ Oh ! I could weep to see the day die thus ; 
Q.The death-bed of a day, how beautiful ! 
Linger, ye clouds, one moment longer there ; 
Fan it to slumber with your golden wings ! 
Like pious prayers, ye seem to soothe its end. 
557 



WORDS. 

It will wfike no more till the all-revealing day ; 

When, like a drop of water, greatened bright 

Into a shadow, it shall show itself 

With all its little tyrannous things and deeds, 

Unhomed and clear. The day hath gone to God,- 

Straight — like an infant's spirit, or a mocked 

And mourning messenger of Grace to man. 

Would it had taken me too on its wing ! 

My end is nigh. Would I might die outright, — 

So o'er the sunset clouds of red mortality 

The emerald hues of deathlessness diffuse 

Their glory, heightening to the starry blue 

Of all embosoming eternity. 

Who that hath lain lonely on a high hill, 

In the imperious silence of full noon, 

With nothing but the clear dark sky about him, 

Like God's Hand laid upon the head of earth, — 

But hath expected that some natural spirit 

Should start out of the universal air. 

And, gathering his cloudy robe around him, 

As one in act to teach mysterious things, 

Explain that he must die? 



WORDS. 



c 



( 



The poet in his work reflects his soul, 
As some lone nymph, beside a woodland well, 
Whose clear white limbs, like animated light. 
Make glad the heart and sanctify the sight, 
The soft and shadowy miracle of her form. 
The bard's aim is to give us thoughts ; his art 
Lieth in giving them as bright as may be. 
558 



PHILIP JAMES BAILEY. 

Words are the motes of thought, and nothing more. 
Words are like sea-shells on the shore ; they show 
Where the mind ends, and not hoAV far it has been. 
Let every thought, too, soldier-like, be stripped, 
And roughly looked over. The dress of words, 
Like to the Roman girl's enticing garb, 
Should let the play of limb be seen through it. 
And the round rising form. A mist of words. 
Like halos round the moon, though they enlarge 
The seeming size of thoughts, make the light less 
Doubly. It is the thought writ down Ave Avant, 
Not its eiFect, — not likenesses of likenesses. 
And such descriptions are not, more than gloves 
Listead of hands to shake, enough for us. 
As in the good the fair; simplicity 
C Is Nature's first step, and the last of Art. 



r 



PORTRAIT OF A LADY. 

Her form Avas all humanity. 

Her soul all God's ; in spirit and in form, 
Like fair. Her cheek had the pale pearly pink 
Of sea-shells, the Avorld's sweetest tint, as though 
She lived, one half might deem, on roses sopped 
In silver dew ; she spake as Avith the a oice 
Of spheral harmony, which greets the soul 
When at the hour of death the saved one knows 
His sister angels near ; her eye Avas as 
The golden fane the setting sun doth just 
Imblaze ; Avhich shows, till Heaven comes doAA-n again, 
All other lights but grades of gloom; her dark. 
Long rolling locks AA^ere as a stream the slave 
Might search for gold, and, searching, find. 
559 




KNOWLES. 

THE APPEAL AND THE REPROOF. 

JULIA AND MASTER WALTER. 

Walte7\ What ! run the waves so high ? Not ready yet ! 
Your lord will soon be here ! The guests collect. 



Julia. Show me some way to 'scape these nuptials ! Do it ! 
Some opening for avoidance or escape, — 
Or to thy charge I'll lay a broken heart ! 

r.oo 



KNOWLES. 

It may be, broken vows, and blasted honour! 
Or else a mind distraught! 

Walter. What's this? 

«^«^2«- The strait 

I'm fallen into my patience cannot bear! 
It frights my reason — warps my sense of virtue I 
Eeligion! — changes me into a thing 
I look at with abhorring;! 

Walter. Listen to me. 

Julia. Listen to me, and heed me ! If this contract 
Thou hold'st 2ne to — abide thou the result! 
Answer to Heaven for what I suffer! — act! 
Prepare thyself for such calamity 
To fall on me, and those whose evil stars 
Have link'd them with me, as no past mishap, 
However rare, and marvellously sad. 
Can parallel! lay thy account to live V 

A smileless life, die an unpitied death — 
Abhorr'd, abandon' d of thy kind, — as one 
Who had the guarding of a young maid's peace, — 
Look'd on and saw her rashly peril it; 
And when she saw her danger, and confess'd 
Her fault, compell'd her to complete her ruin! 

]]^al(er. Plast done? 

'fiil'(^- Another moment, and I have. 

Be warn'd! Beware how you abandon me 
To myself! I'm young, rash, inexperienced I tempted 
By most insuperable misery ! 
Bold, desperate, and reckless ! Thou hast age, 
Experience, wisdom, and coUectednegs, — 

5G1 V X 



THE APPEAL XSB THE REPROOF. 

Power, froodoni, — everything that I have not, 

Yet -want, as none e'er Avanted! Thou canst save me. 

Thou oiiglit'st ! thou must ! I tell thee, at his feet 

I'll fall a corse — ere mount his bridal bed ! 

So choose betwixt my rescue and my grave; — 

And quickly too! The hour of sacrifice 

Is near ! Anon the immolating priest 

Will summon me! Devise some speedy means 

To cheat the altar of its victim. Do it ! 

Nor leave the task to me ! 

Walter. Hast done? 

■fulia. I have. 

Walter. Then list to me — and silently, if not 
With patience. — iBrings chairs for himself and her. 

How I watch'd thee from thy childhood, 
I'll not recall to thee. Thy flither's wisdom — 
Whose humble instrument I was — directed 
Your nonage should be pass'd in privacy, 
From your apt mind, that far outstripp'd your years, 
Fearing the taint of an infected Avorld ; — 
For in the rich ground, weeds, once taking root. 
Grow strong as tlowers. He might be right or -wTong! 
I thought him right ; and therefore did his bidding. 
Most certainly he loved you — so did I; 
Ay ! "well as I had been myself your fother ! 

{_His hand is resting upon his Jcnee. Julia attempts to tale it. 
He withdraws it ; looks at her. She hangs her head. 

Well; you may take my hand! I need not say 
How fast you grew iu knowledge, and in goodness, — 
That hope could scarce enjoy its golden di-eams, 
So soon fullilment realized them all ! 

5G2 



KNOWLES. 

Enough. You came to womanhood. Your heart 

Pure as the leaf of the consummate bud, 

That's new unfolded by the smiling sun, 

And ne'er knew blight nor canker! When a good woman 

Is fitly mated, f^he grows doubly good. 

How good soe'er before ! I found the man 

I thought a match for thee ; and, soon as found, 

Proposed him to thee. 'Twas your father's will, 

Occasion offering, you should be married 

Soon as you reach'd to womanhood. You liked 

My choice — accepted him. We came to town ; 

Where, by important matters, summon'd thence, 

I left you, an affianced bride ! 

Julia. You did ! 

You did! 

Walter. Nay, check thy tears ! Let judgment now. 
Not passion, be awake. On my return, 
I found thee — what ? I'll not describe the thing 
I found thee then ! I'll not describe my pangs 
To see thee such a thing ! The engineer 
Who lays the last stone of his sea-built tower 
It cost him years and years of toil to raise, 
And, smiling at it, tells the winds and waves 
To roar and whistle now — but, in a night, 
Beholds the tempest sporting in its place — 
^fay look aghast, as I did ! 



56.3 



MASSEY. 



OUR WEE WHITE ROSE. 



All in our marriage garden 

Grew, smiling up to God, 
A bonnier flower than ever 

Suckt the green warmth of the sod ; 
O beautiful unfathomably 

Its little life unfurled ; 
And crown of all things was our wee 

White Rose of all the world. 

From out a balmy bosom, 

Our bud of beauty grew : 
It fed on smiles for sunshine ; 

On tears for daintier dew : 
Aye nestling warm and tenderly, 

Our leaves of love were curled, 
So close and close, about our wee 

White Rose of all the world. 

With mystical faint fragrance 
Our house of life she filled — 

Revealed each hour some fairy tower 
Where winged hopes might build ! 

We saw — though none like us might see- 
Such precious promise pearled 

Upon the petals of our wee 
White Rose of all the world. 
504 




But, evermore the halo 

Of Angel-light mcreased, 
Like the mystery of moonlight 

That folds some fairy feast. 
Snow-white, snow-soft, snow-silently 

Our darling bud up-curled, 
And dropt i' the grave — God's lap — our wee 

"WTiite Rose of all the world. 
565 



THAT MERRY, MERRY MAY. 

Our Eose was but in blossom ; 

Our life was but in spring ; 
When down the solemn midnight 

AVe heard the Spirits sing — 
'' Another bud of infancy 

With holy dews impearled !" 
And in their hands they bore our wee 

White Eose of all the world. 

You scarce could think so small a thing 

Could leave a loss so large ; 
Her little light such shadow fling 

From dawn to sunset's marge. 
In other springs our life may be 

In bannered bloom unfurled, 
But never, never match our wee 

"NMiite Eose of all the world. 



THAT MERRY, MERRY MAY. 

Ah! 'tis like a tale of olden 

Time, long, long ago ; 
When the world was in its golden 

Prime, and Love was lord below I 
Every vein of Earth was dancing 

With the Spring's new wine ! 
'Twas the pleasant time of flowers, 

AMien I met you, love of mine ! 
Ah ! some spirit sure was straying 

Out of heaven that day, 
When I met you. Sweet ! a-Maying 

In that meriy, meriy May ! 
566 







Little heart! it sliyly open'd 
Its red leaves' love-lore, 

Like a rose that must be ripen'd 
To the dainty, dainty core. 

But its beauties dailj brighten, 
And it blooms so dear, — 
567 



BABE CHRISTABEL. 

Tho' a many Winters whiten, 
I go Maying all the year. 

And my proud heart Avill be praying 
Blessings on the day, 

When I met you, Sweet, a-Maying, 
In that merry, merry May. 



• BABE CHRISTABEL. 

In this dim world of clouding cares, 
We rarely know, till A\ildered eyes 
See white wings lessening up the skies. 

The Angels with us unawares. 

And thou hast stolen a jewel. Death ! 

Shall light thy dark up like a Star, 

A Beacon kindling from afar 
Our light of love, and fainting faith. 

Thro' tears it gleams perpetually. 

And glitters thro' the thickest glooms. 
Till the eternal morning comes 

To light us o'er the Jasper Sea. 

With our best branch in tenderest leaf, 

We've strewn the way our Lord doth come 
And, ready for the harvest-home. 

His Reapers bind our ripest sheaf. 

Our beautiful Bird of light hath tied: 
Awhile she sat with folded wings — 
Sang round ns a few hoverings — 

Then straightway into glory sped. 
568 



MASSEY. 

And white-winged Angels nurture her ; 

With heaven's white radiance robed and crown' d, 

And all Love's purple glory round, 
She summers on the Hills of Myrrh. 

Thro' Childhood's mornuig-land serene 
She walkt betAvixt us twain, like Love; 
While, in a robe of light above, 

Her better Angel walkt unseen. 

Till Life's highway broke bleak and wild ; 
Then, lest her starry garments trail 
In mire, heart bleed, and courage fail, 

The Angel's arms caught up the child. 

Her wave of life hath backward roll'd 

To the great ocean, on wdiose shore 

We wander up and down, to store 
Some treasures of the times of old : 

And aye we seek and hunger on 
For precious pearls and relics rare, 
StreAAii on the sands for us to wear 

At heart, for love of her that's gone. 

weep no more ! there yet is balm 
In Gilead ! Love doth ever shed 
Rich healing where it nestles, — spread 

O'er desert pillows some green jialm ! 

God's ichor fills the hearts that bleed ; 

The best fruit loads the broken bough ; 

And in the wounds our sufferings plough. 
Immortal Love sows sovereign seed. 



569 




ALLINGHAM. 



AUTUMNAL SONNET. 



Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods. 
And day by day the dead leaves fall and melt, 

And night by night the monitory blast 

Wails in the key-hole, telling how it pass'd 
O'er empty fields, or upland solitudes. 

Or grim wide wave ; and now the power is felt 
Of melancholy, tenderer in its moods 

Than any joy indulgent summer dealt. 
Dear friends, together in the glimmering eve, 

Pensive and glad, Avith tones that recognise 

The soft invisible dew on each one's eyes. 
It may be, somewhat thus we shall have leave 

To walk with memory, when distant lies 
Poor Earth, where we were wont to live and grieve. 
570 



MACKAY. 

YOUTH AND SORROW. 

" Get thee back, Sorrow, get tliee back ! 
My broAV is smooth, mine eyes are briglil, 
My limbs are full of health and strength, 
My cheeks are fresh, my heart is light. 
So, get thee back ! oh, get thee back ! 
Consort with age, but not with me ; 
Why shouldst thou follow on my track? 
I am too young to live with thee." 

" O foolish Youth, to scorn thy friend ! 
To harm thee wherefore should I seek"? 
I would not dim thy sparkling eyes. 
Nor blight the roses on thy cheek. 
I would but teach thee to be true ; 
And should I press thee overmuch, 
'Evev the flowers that I bedew 
Yield sweetest fragrance to the touch." 

" Get thee back. Sorrow, get thee back ! 
I like thee not; thy looks are chill. 
The sunshine lies upon my heart, 
Thou showest me the shadow still. 
So, get thee back! oh, get thee back! 
Nor touch my golden locks with grey ; 
Why shouldst thou follow on my track? 
Let me be happy while I may." 

" Good friend, thou needest sage advice ; 
I'll keep thy heart from growing proud, 
I'll fill thy mind with kindly thoughts, 
And link thy pity to the crowd. 



YOUTH AND SOEROW. 

Wouldst have a heart of pulseless stone? 
Wouldst be too haj^pj to be good ? 
Nor make a human Avoe thine own, 
For sake of human brotherhood'?" 

"Get thee back, Sorrow, get thee back! 
Wliy should I weep while I am young ? — 
I have not piped — I have not danced — 
My morning songs I have not sung: 
The world is beautiful to me. 
Why tarnish it to soul and sense? 
Prithee begone ! I'll think of thee 
Some half a hundred winters hence." 

" O foolish Youth, thou know'st me not ; 
I am the mistress of the earth — 
'Tis / give tenderness to love ; 
Enhance the privilege of mirth ; 
Refine the human gold from dross ; 
And teach thee, wormling of the sod, 
To look beyond thy present loss 
To thy eternal gain with God." 

'• Get thee back. Sorrow, get thee back ! 

I'll learn thy lessons soon enough ; 

If virtuous pleasure smooth my way. 

Why shouldst thou seek to make it rough? 

No fruit can ripen in the dark, 

No bud can bloom in constant cold — 

So, prithee. Sorrow, miss thy mark, 

Or strike me not till I am old." 

" I am thy friend, thy best of friends ; 
No bud in constant heats can blow — 
The green fruit withers in the drought. 
But ripens where the waters flow. 
572 







The sorrows of thy youthful day 
Shall make thee wise in coming years; 
The brightest rainbows ever play 
Above the fountains of our tears." 

Youth frowned, but Sorrow gently smiled; 
Upon his heart her hand she laid, 
And all its hidden sympathies 
Throbbed to the fingers of the Maid. 
And when his head grew grey with Time, 
He owned that Sorrow spoke the truth. 
And that the harvest of his prime 
Was ripened by the rains of Youth. 
573 



FEANCES BROWN. 



THE HOPE OF THE RESURRECTION. 



SUGGESTED BY THE REMARK OF AN AFRICAN CHIEF TO A JIISSIONARV. 

TiiY voice hath filled our forest shades, 

Child of the sunless shore ! 
For never heard the ancient glades 

Such wondrous words before. 
Though bards our land of palms have filled 

With tales of joy or dread, — 
Yet thou alone our souls hast thrilled 

With tidings of her dead. 

The men of old, who slept in death 

Before the forests grew, 
Whose glory faded here beneath, 

While yet the hills were new, — 
The warriors famed in battles o'er. 

Of whom our fathers spake, — 
The wise, whose wisdom shines no more, — 

Stranger, will they awake? 

The foes who fell in thousand fights. 

Beneath my conquering brand, — 
Whose bones have strewn the Gaffer's heights, 

The Bushman's lonely land, — 




The young, who t^hared my warrior-way, 
But found an early urn, — 

And the roses of my youth's bright day- 
Stranger, will they return ? 



My mother's face was fair to see — 

My father's glance was bright, — 
But long ago the grave from me 

Hath hid their blessed light; 
Still sweeter was the sunshine shed • 

By my lost children's eyes, 
That beam upon me from the dead, — 

Stranger, will they arise? 



ALL THINGS NEW. 

Was it some green grave's early guest. 

Who loved thee long and well, 
That left the land of dreamless rest. 

Such blessed truths to tell? 
For we have had our wise ones, too. 

Who feared not death's abyss, — 
The strong in hope, in love the true, — 

But none that dreamed of this! 

Yet, if the grave restore to life 

Her ransomed spoils again, 
And ever hide the hate and strife 

That died with wayward men ; — 
I low hath my spii-it missed the star 

That guides our steps above ; — 
Since only earth was gi^•en to war, — 

That better land to love! 



ALL THINGS NEW. 

• And He that sat upon the Throne said, Behold, I make all things new. 

New Heavens ! for the stars grow pale 

With the midnight scenes of time ! 
And the sun is weary of the wail 

That meets him in every clime : — 
And the sky grows dim with the mist of tears — 
Bring back the blue of its first, bright years ! 
576 



FRANCES BROWN. 

New Earth! for the land and waves 

With a weight of evil groan ; 
And its dwellings stand in a soil of graves, 

Which fearful things have known : 
From the touch of fire, from the battle-stain. 
Gives us its Eden green again! 

New Law ! for 'tis the arm of wrong:. 

And great hath been the cry 
When oppressors' hands in their might grew strong, 

And their deeds have pierced the sky: — 
But the powers are shaken; — oh! requite 
With the free, unchanging law of right. 

New Faith ! for a voice of blood 

Hath been heard from every shrine. 
And the Avorld hath worshipped many a God 

With rites it deemed divine: — 
But the creeds grow old, and the fanes decay: — 
Show us, at last, some better way! 

New Hope ! for it rose among 

The thorns of a barren spot, 
Where the bloom is brief and the labour long, 

And the harvest cometli not: — 
And hearts grow weary that Avatch and wait — 
Give them a rainbow that fears not fate ! 

New Love ! for it hath been cast 

On the troubled waters, long. 
And hoped in visions vain that passed 

Away, like a night-bird's song: — 
It may not be severed from the lost, — 
But give us the young world's love uncross'd ! 

New Life! give the summers back 
Whose glory passed in vain, — 

577 



ALL THINGS NEW. 

Redeem our days from the shadoAv black 

Of clouds without the rain, 
And the wastes which bitter waters wore — 
And our canker-eaten years restore ! 

New Light! for the lamps decay 

Which shone on the old world's youth, 

And the wise man watches for a ray 
Of the undiscovered Truth : — 

Long hath he looked through the midnight dim,- 

Let the glorious Day-Spring visit him! 

Must the Earth's last hope like a shadow flee? 

Was the dream of ages vain? 
Oh! when will the bright restoring be, 

And the glory come again 
Of our promised spring, with its blessed dew — 
And His Word, that maketh all things new! 



578 



PARSONS. 

SORRENTO. 

Midway betwixt the present and the ])ast — 
Naples and Pa^stum — look ! Sorrento lies : 

Ulysses built it, and the Sirens cast 

Their spell upon the shore, the sea, the skies. 

11' thou hast dreamed, in any dream of thine. 

How Paradise appears, or those Elysian 
Immortal meadows which the gods assign 

Unto the pure of heart — behold thy vision ! 

These Avaters, they are blue beyond belief, 

Nor hath green England greener fields than these : 

The sun — 'tis Italy's ; here winter's brief 
And gentle visit hardly cfiills the breeze. 

Here Tasso dwelt, and here inhaled with spring 
The breath of passion and the soul of song. 

Here young Boccacio plumed his early wing, 
Thenceforth to soar above the vulgar throng. 

All chai'ms of contrast — every nameless grace 
That lives in outline, harmony, or hue — 

So heighten all the romance of the place. 
That the rapt artist maddens at the view. 

And then despairs, and throws his pencil by, 
And sits all day and looks upon the shore 

And the calm ocean with a languid eye, 
As though to labour were a law no more. 
579 



SORRENTO. 

Voluptuous coast! no wonder that the proud 

Imperial Roman found in yonder isle 
Some sunshine still to gild Fate's gathering cloud. 

And lull the storm of conscience for a while. 

What new Tiberius, tired of lust and life, 

May rest him here to give the world a truce, — 

A little truce from perjury and strife, 
Justice adulterate and power's misuse? 

Might the gross Bourbon — he that sleeps in spite 

Of red Vesuvius ever in his eye. 
Yet, if he wake, should tremble at its light 

As 'twere Heaven's vengeance, promised from on liigli,- 

Or that poor gamester, of so cunning play, 
^Vho, up at last, in Fortune's fickle dance, 

Aping the mighty in so mean a way. 

Makes now his dice the destinies of France, — 

Might they, or any of Oppression's band. 
Sit here and learn the lesson of the scene, 

Peace might return to many a bleeding land. 
And men grow just again, and life serene. 



580 



PAESONS. 



SAINTPERAY. 

When to any saint I pray, 
It shall be to Saint Peray. 
He alone, of all the brood, 
Ever did me any good : 
Many I have tried that are 
Humbugs in the calendar. 

On the Atlantic faint and sick, 
Once I prayed Saint Dominick : 
He was holy, sure, and wise ; — 
Was't not he who did devise 
Auto da Fes and rosaries? 
But for one in my condition 
This good saint was no physician. 

Next in pleasant Normandie, 
I made a prayer to Saint Denis, 
In the great cathedral, where 

All the ancient kings repose ; 
But, how I was swindled there 

At the " Golden Fleece," — he knows ! 

In my wanderings, vague and various. 
Reaching Naples — as I lay 
Watching Vesuvius from the bay, 

I besought Saint Januarius. 

But I was a fool to try him ; 

Naught I said could liquefy him ; 

And I swear he did me -wrong, 

Keeping me shut up so long 
581 



SAINT PERAY. 

In that pest-house, -vvith obscene 

Jews and Greeks and things unclean — 

What need had I of quarantme "? 

In Sicily at least a score, — 
In Spain about as many more, — 
And in Rome almost as many 
As the loves of Don Giovanni, 
Did I pray to — sans reply; 
Devil take the tribe ! — said I. 

Worn Avith travel, tired and lame, 
To Assisi's walls I came : 
Sad and full of homesick fancies, 
I addressed me to Saint Francis; 
But the beggar never did 
Anything as he was bid, 
Never gave me aught but fleas, — 
Plenty had I at Assise. 

But in Provence, near Vaucluse, 

Hard by the Rhone, I found a Saint 
Gifted ^dth a wondrous juice 

Potent for the worst complaint. 
'Twas at Avignon that first — 
In the witching time of thirst — 
To my brain the knowledge came 
Of this blessed Catholic's name ; 
Forty miles of dust that day 
Made me welcome Saint Peray. 

Though till then I had not heard 
Aught about him, ere a third 
Of a litre passed my lips. 
All saints else were in eclipse. 
For his gentle spirit glided 
With such magic into mine, 
582 



PARSONS. 

That me thought such bliss as I did 

Poet never drew from wine. 
Rest he gave me and refection, — 
Chastened hopes, cahn retrospection, — 
Softened images of sorrow, 
Bright forebodings for the morrow,- — 
Charity for what is past, — 
Faith in something good at last. 

Now, why should any almanack 

The name of this good creature lack ? 

'\Ylierefore should the breviary 

Omit a saint so sage and merry? 

The Pope himself should grant a day 

Especially to Saint Peray. 

But, since no day hath been appointed, 

On purpose, by the Lord's anointed, 

Let us not wait — we'll do him right ; 

Send round your bottles, Hal — and set your night. 



58a 




.T. RUSSELL LOWELL. 



THE SINGING LEAVES. 



A BALLAD. 



"What fairings Avill ye that I bring?" 
Said the king to his daughters three ; 

"For I to Vanity Fair am bound, 
Now say what shall they be V 



Then up and spake the eldest daughter. 

The lady tall and grand, 
"Ye shall bring to me the diamonds great, 

And gold rings for my hand." 
58t- 



J. EUSSELL LOWELL. 

Thereafter spake the second daughter. 

That Avas both wliite and red, 
"For me brhig silk that -will stand alone 

And a gold comb for my head." 

Then lowly spake the least daughter, 
That was whiter than thistle-down, 

And among the gold of her blithesome hair 
Dim shone the golden crown. 

" Thei'e came a bird at sunrise 
And sang 'neatli my bower-eaves, 

And sent the sweet dream that bade me 
To ask for the Singing Leaves." 

The vein of his forehead reddened 

In a ridge of angry scorn, 
"Well have ye spoken, my two eldest. 

And chosen as ye were born. 

"But thou, like a thing of peasant blood, 
That is happy binding the ^heaves !" — 

Then he saw her dead mother in her face. 
And said, "Thou shalt have thy Leaves." 



II. 



He bade farewell to the elder twain, 
And touched his lips to their cheek. 

But 'twas thrice he kiss'd the Princess Anne, 
And looked back and did not speak. 

And he has ridden three days and nights. 

Till he came to Vanity Fair ; 
And easy it was to buy gems and gold, 

But no Singing Leaves were there. 

585 



THE SINGING LEAVES. 

Then deej) in the greenwood rode he, 

And asked of every tree : 
'•Oh, if ye have ever a singing leaf, 

I pray you to give it me !" 

But the trees all kept their counsel ; 

They said neither yea or nay ; 
Only there sighed from the pine-tops 

A music of seas far away. 

Only the aspen pattered 

With a sound like growing rain, 
That fell ever fast and faster, 

Then faltei'ed to silence again. 

•' Oh, where shall I find a little foot-page, 
That would Avin both hose and shoon. 

And will bring to me these Singing Leaves, 
If they grow 'neath sun or moon ?" 

Then lightly turned him Walter, the page, 

By the stirrup as he ran, 
" Now pledge to me the truesome word 

Of a knight and gentleman, 

" That you will give me the first, first thing 

You meet at your castle-gate ; 
And the princess shall get the Singing Leaves, 

Or mine be the traitor's fate !" 

The king's head dropped on his bosom 

A moment, as it might be — 
'Twill be my hound, he thought, and he said, 

"I pledge my word to thee." 

Tlien Walter took from next his heart 

A packet small and thin ; 
" And give you this to the Princess Anne — 

The Singing Leaves are therein." 

586 



J. EUSSELL LOWELL. 



III. 



As the king rode in, o'er the loud draw-bridge 

A maiden to meet him ran ; 
And, " Welcome, father !" she laughed and cried 

Together, the Princess Anne. 

^ Lo, here thy Singing Leaves," quoth he ; 

" And wo, but they cost me dear !" 
She took the packet, and her smile 

Deepened down beneath the tear. 

It deepened down to her very heart, 

And then flushed back again. 
And lighted her tears as the sudden sun 

Transfigures the summer rain. 

And the first leaf, when she opened it. 

Sang, "I am Walter, the page. 
And the songs I sing 'neath thy window 

Are all my heritage !" 

And the second leaf sang, "But in the land 

That is neither on earth or sea, 
My harp and I are lords of more 

Than thrice this kingdom's fee !" 

And the third leaf sang, " Be mine ! be mine !" 

And still it sang, "Be mine!" 
Then sweeter it sang and ever sweeter. 

And said, " I am thine, thine, thine !" 

At the first leaf she grew pale enough. 

At the second she turned aside. 
At the third, 'twas as if a lily flushed 

With u rose's red heart's tide. 

587 



LONGING. 



" Good counsel gave the bird," she said ; 

" 1 have my wish thrice o'er ; 
For they sing to my very heart," she said. 

'•And it sings with them evermore." 



LONGING. 

Of all the myriad moods of mind 

That through the soul come tlu'onging, 
Which one was e'er so dear, so kind, 

So beautiful, as Longing? 
The thing we long for, that we are 

For one transcendent moment. 
Before the Present poor and bare 

Can make its sneei-ing comment. 

Still, through our paltry stir and strife, 

Glows down the wished Ideal, 
And Longing moulds in clay what Life 

Carves in the marble Eeal ; 
To let the new life in, we know, 

Desire must ope the portal ; — 
Perhaps the longing to be so 

Helps make the soul immortal. 

Longing is God's fresh heavenward will. 
With our poor earthward striving ; 

We quench it that we may be still 
Content with merely living ; 

588 



J. EUSSELL LOWELL. 

But would we learn that heart's full scope 
Which we are hourly wronging, 

Our lives must climb from hope to hope, 
And realize our longinsr. 

Ah ! let us hope that to our praise 

Good God not only reckons 
The moments when we tread his ways, 

But when the spirit beckons, — 
That some slight good is also wrought 

Beyond self-satisfaction, 
When we are simply good in thought, 

Howe'er we fail in action. 



AUF WIEDERSEHEN! 



SUMMER. 

The little gate was reached at last. 
Half hid in lilacs down the lane ; 
She pushed it wide, and as she passed 
A wistful look she backward cast. 
And said, — ^^ Auf Wiedersehen T 

With hand on latch, a vision white 
Lingered, reluctant, and again 

Half doubting if she did aright; 

Soft as the dews that fell that night, 
vSlic said, — '■^ Auf Wiedersehen f 
589 



PALINODE. 

The lamp's clear gleam flits up the stair ; 

I linger in delicious pain ; 
Ah ! in that chamber, whose rich air 
To breathe in thought I scarcely dare. 

Thinks she, — '•'■ Auf Wiedersehen f 

'Tis thirteen years ; once more I press 

The turf that silences the lane ; 
I hear the rustle of her dress, 
I smell the lilacs, and — ah, yes, 
I hear ^^ Auf Wiedersehen f 

Sweet piece of bashful maiden art I 

The English words had seemed too fain 

But these — they drew us heart to heart. 

Yet held us tenderly apart, — 
She said, — " Auf Wiederselmi /" 



PALINODE. 
II. 

AUTUMN. 

Still thirteen years : 'tis autumn now, 

On field and hill, in heart and brain ; 
The naked trees at evening sough, 
The leaf to the forsaken bough 
Sighs not, — " We meet again !" 
500 



J. RUSSELL LOWELL. 

Two watched yon oriole's pendent dome 
That now is void, and dank with rain. 

And one — O, hope more frail than foam 1 

The bird to his deserted home 
Sings not, — " We meet again !" 

The loath gate swings with rusty creak ; 

Once, parting there, we played at pain 
There came a parting, when the weak 
And fading lips essayed to speak 

Vainly, — " We meet again !" 

Somewhere is comfort, somewhere faith, 

Though thou in outer dark remain ; 
One sweet, sad voice ennobles death, 
And still, for eighteen centuries saith 
Softly, — "Ye meet again!" 

If earth another grave must bear, 

Yet heaven hath won a sweeter stram, 
And something whispers to despair. 
That, from an orient chamber there, 
Floats down, "We meet again!" 



591 



MARIxV LOWELL. 
THE ALPINE SPIEEP. 

ADDRESSED TO A FKIEND AFTER THE LOSS OF A CHILD. 

When on my car your loss was knelled, 

And tender sympathy upburst, 
A little spring from memory welled, 

Which once had quenched my bitter thirst, 

And I was fain to bear to you 

A portion of its mild relief. 
That it might be as healing dew. 

To steal some fever from your grief. 

After our child's untroubled breath 

Up to the Father took its way, 
And on our home the shade of Death, 

Like a long tAvilight haunting lay, 

And friends came round, with us to weep 

Her little spirit's swift remove, 
The story of the Alpine sheep 

AVas told to us by one we love. 

They, in the valley's sheltering care. 
Soon crop the meadows' tender prime, 

And when the sod grows brown and bare, 
Tiie Shepherd strives to make them climb 

To airy shelves of pasture green. 

That hang along the mountain's side, 

Where grass and tlowers together lean, 

And down through mist the sunbeams slide. 
r>i)2 



MAKIA LOWELL. 

Hnt nought can tempt tlic timid things 
Tile steep and rugged patli to try, 

Though sweet the shepherd calls and sings, 
And scared below the pastures lie. 

Till in his arms his laml)s he takes. 

Along the dizzy vei'gc to go, 
Then, heedless of the rifts and breaks, 

I'licy follow on o'er rock and snow. 

And in (hose pastures, lifted fair, 
JMorc dewy-soft than lowland mca<l. 

The shepherd drops his tender care. 
And sheep and lambs together feed. 

This parable, by Nature breathed, 
JJiew on me as the south-wind free 

O'er frozen brooks, that How unsheathed 
From icy thraldom to the sea. 

A blissful vision, through the night 
Would all my happy senses sway 

Of the Good Shepherd on the height. 
Or climbing up the starry Avay, 

Holding our littk; laml) asleep, 

While, like the murmur of the sea. 

Sounded that voice along the deep, 
Saying, " Arise and follow mo !" 



CAKEY. 

PICTURES OF MEMORY. 

Among the beautiful pictures 

That hang on Memory's wall, 
Is one of a dim old forest, 

That seemeth best of all : 
Not for its gnarled oaks olden. 

Dark with the mistletoe, 
Not for the violets golden 

That sprinkle the vale below; 
Not for the mUk-white lilies 

That lean from the fragrant hedge, 
Coquetting all day with the sunbeams, 

And stealing theii* golden edge ; 
Not for the vines on the upland 

Where the bright red berries rest. 
Nor tlie pinks, nor the pale, sweet cowslip. 

It seemeth to me the best. 

I once had a little brother. 

With eyes that were dark and deep — 
In the lap of that old dim forest 

He lieth in peace asleep : 
Light as the down of the thistle. 

Free as the winds that blow. 
We roved there the beautiful summers. 

The summers of long ago ; 
But his feet on the hills grew AA-eary, 

And, one of the autumn eves, 
I made for my little brother 

A bed of the yellow leaves. 
594 



CAJiEY. 

.Sweetly his pale arms folded 

My neck in a meek embrace, 
As the light of immortal beauty 

Silently covered his face : 
And when the arrows of sunset 

Lodged in the tree-tops bright, 
He fell, in his saint-like beauty, 

Asleep by the gates of light. 
Therefore, of all the pictures 

That hang on Memory's Mall, 
The one of the dim old forest 

Seemeth the best of all. 



595 




*^ ^^4^^^'^s^'''^^ 



READ. 

THE WAYSIDE SPRING. 

Faiu tlweller by the dusty way — 
Bright saint within a mossy shriiio, 

The tribute of a heart to-day 
Weary and worn is thine. 
596 



HEAD. 

The earliest blossoms of the year, 
The sweet-brier ami the violet 

The pious hand of S[)ring has here 
Upon thy altar set. 

And not alone to thee is given 

The homage of the pilgrim's knee — 

But oft the sweetest birds of IIea^en 
(Jlide down and sing to thee. 

Here daily from his beechen cell 
The hermit squirrel steals to drink, 

And floeks which cluster to their bell 
l?ecline along thy brink. 

And here the waggoner blocks his wheels, 
To quaff the cool and generous boon ; 

Here, from the sultry harvest fields 
The reapers I'est at noon. 

And oft the beggar marked with Ian, 
In rusty garments grey with dust. 

Here sits and dips his little can, 
And breaks his scanty crust ; 

,\.ud, lulled beside thy whispering stream. 
Oft drops to slumber unawares, 

And sees the angel of his dream 
T''pon celestial stairs. 

Dear dweller by the dusty way, 
Thou saint within a mossy shrine, 

The tribute of a heart to-da}- 
Woary jukI worn is thine! 



i^n: 



THE CLOSING SCENE. 



THE CLOSING SCENE. 



Within this sober realm of leafless trees, 
The russet year inhaled the dreamy air, 

Like some tanned reaper in his hour of ease, 
When all the fields are lying brown and bare. 

The gray barns, looking from their liazy hills 
O'er the dim waters widening in the vales, 

Sent down the air a greeting to the mills, 
On the dull thunder of alternate flails. 

All sights were mellowed, and all sounds subdued. 
The hills seemed farther, and the streams sang low 

As in a dream, the distant woodman hewed 
His winter log with many a mufl3^ed blow. 

Th' embattled forests, erewhile armed in gold, 
Their banners bright with every martial hue, 

Now stood, like some sad beaten host of old, 
Withdrawn afar in Time's remotest blue. 



On slumb'rous wings the vulture held his flight ; 

The dove scarce heard his sighing mate's complaint ; 
And like a star slow drowning in the light, 

The village church-vane seemed to pale and faint. 

The sentinel cock upon the hill-side crew ; 

Crew thrice, and all was stiller than before — 
Silent till some replying wanderer blew 

His alien horn, and then Avas heard no more. 

598 



READ. 

Where erst the jay within the elm's tall crest 

Made garrulous trouble round her luifledged young ; 

And where the oriole hung her swaying nest 
By every light wind like a censer sAvung ; 

Where sang the noisy masons of the eves, 

The busy swallows circling ever near, 
Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes, 

An early harvest and a plenteous year ; 

Where every bird which charmed the vernal feast 
Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn. 

To warn the reapers of the rosy east, 

All now was songless, empty, and forlorn. 

Alone, from out the stubble piped the quail, 

And croaked the crow through all the dreary gloom 

Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale, 
Made echo to the distant cottage loom. 

There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers ; 

The spiders wove their thin shrouds night by night: 
The thistle-down, the only ghost of flowers, 

Sailed slowly by — passed noiseless out of siglit. 

Amid all this — in this most cheerless air, 

xVnd where the woodbine shed upon the porch 

Its crimson leaves, as if the year stood there, 
Firinfj the floor with his inverted torch — 



Amid all this, the centre of the scene. 

The white-haired matron, with monotonous tread 

Plied her swift wheel, and with her joyless mien 
Sat like a Fate, and watched the flying thread. 
509 



THE CLOSING SCENE. 

She liad known sorrow. He had walked with her, 
Oft su]^>j)ed, and broke the bitter ashen crust, 

And in the dead leaves still she heard the stir 
Of his black mantle trailing in the dust. 

While yet her cheek w^as bright Avitli summer bloom. 
Her country summoned, and she gave her all. 

And twice War bowed to her his sable plume ; 
lie-gave the swords to rust upon her wall. 

Re-gave the swords — but not the hand that drew, 
And struck for Liberty the dying blow ; 

Nor him, who to his sire and country true 
Fell 'mid the ranks of the invading foe. 

Long, but not loud, the droning wheel Avent on. 
Like the low murmurs of a hive at noon ; 

Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone 

Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous tune. 

At last the thread was snapped, her head was bowed : 
Life dropped the distaff through his hands serene ; 

And loving neighbours smoothed her careful shroud. 
While Death and Winter closed the autumn scene. 



600 



BAYARD TAYLOE. 



KILIMANDJARO. 

Hail to thee, monarch of African mountains, 
Kemote, inaccessible, silent, and lone — 
Wlio, from the heart of the tropical fervours, 
Liftest to heaven thine alien snows, 
Feeding for ever the fountains that make thee 
P\ither of Nile and Creator of Egj'pt ! 

llie years of the world are engraved on thj forehead 

Time's morning blushed red on thy first-fallen snoM-s ; 

Yet lost in the wilderness, nameless, unnoted, 

Of man unbeholden, thou wert not till now. 

Knowledge alone is the being of Nature, 

(Ti\ing a soul to her manifold features, 

Lighting through paths of the primitive darkness 

I'he footsteps of Truth and the vision of Song. 

Knowledge has born thee anew to Creation, 

And loi]g-baffled Time at thy baptism rejoices. 

Take, then, a name, and be filled with existence. 

Yea, be exultant in sovereign glory, 

"Wliile fi-om the hand of the wandering poet 

Drops the first garland of song at thy feet. 

Floating alone, on tlie flood of thy making, 
Through Africa's mystery, silence, and fire, 
Lo ! in my palm, like the Eastern enchanter, 
1 dip from tlie waters a magical mirror, 
And tlion art revealed to my purified vision. 

COl 



KILIMANDJARO. 

1 see tliee, supreme in the midst of thy co-mates. 

Standing alone 'twixt the Earth and the Heavens. 

Heir of the Sunset and Herald of Morn. 

Zone above zone, to thy shoulders of granite, 

The climates of Earth are displayed, as an index, 

Giving the scope of the Book of Creation. 

There, in the gorges that widen, descending 

From cloud and from cold into summer eternal. 

Gather the threads of the ice-gendered fountains — 

Gather to riotous torrents of ciystal, 

And, giving each shelvy recess where they dally 

The blooms of the North and its evergreen turfage, 

Leap to the land of the lion and lotus! 

There, in the wondering air of the Tropics 

Shivers the Aspen, still dreaming of cold : 

There stretches the Oak, from the loftiest ledges, 

His arms to the far-away lands of his brothers. 

And the Pine-tree looks dovm on his rival, the Palm. 

Bathed m the tenderest purple of distance. 

Tinted and shadowed by pencils of air. 

Thy battlements hang o'er the slopes and the forests, 

Seats of the Gods in the limitless ether. 

Looming sublimely aloft and afar. 

Above them, like folds of imperial ermine. 

Sparkle the snow-fields that furrow thy forehead — 

Desolate realms, inaccessible, sUent, 

Chasms and caverns where Day is a stranger. 

Garners where stoi-eth his treasures the Thundei-. 

The Lightning his falchion, his arrows the Hail ! 

Sovereign Mountain, thy brothers give Avelcome : 
They, the baptized and the cro^^aie'd of ages. 
Watch-towers of Continents, altars of Earth, 
Welcome thee now to their mighty assembly. 
Mont Blanc, in the roar of his mad avalanches. 
Hails thy accession ; superb Orizaba, 

602 



BAYAED TAYLOR. 

Belted with beech and ensandalled with palm ; 

Cliimborazo, the lord of the regions of noonday ; — 

Mingle their sounds in magnificent chorus 

With greeting august from the Tillars of Heaven, 

Wlio, in the urns of the Indian Ganges 

Filters the snows of their sacred dominions, 

Unmarked with a footprint, unseen but of God. 

Lo ! unto each is the seal of his lordship. 

Nor questioned the right that his majesty givetli : 

Each in his aw^ul supremacy forces 

Worship and reverence, wonder and joy. 

Absolute all, yet in dignity varied, 

None has a claim to the honours of story, 

Or the superior splendours of song. 

Greater than thou, in thy mystery mantled — 

Thou, the sole monarch of African mountains, 

Father of Nile and Creator of Egypt ! 



BEDOUIN SONG. 

From the Desert I come to thee 

On a stallion shod with fire ; 
And the winds are left behind 

In the speed of my desire. 
Under thy window I stand. 

And the midnight hears my cry: 
I love thee, I love but thee, 
With a love that shall not die 
Till the sun groivs cold. 
And the stars are old, 
And the leaves of the Judgment 
Book unfold! 
603 



BEDOUIN SONG. 

Look from thy window and pec 

My passion and my pain ; 
I lie on the sands below, 

And I faint in thy disdain. 
Lv\ the night-winds touch thy bro-w 

With the heat of my burning sigh, 
And melt thee to hear the vow 
Of a love that shall not die 
Ti'll the sun groics cold, 
And the stars are old, 
And the leaves of the Judgment 
Book unfold! 

My steps are nightly driven, 

By the fever in my breast, 
To hear from thy lattice breathed 

The M'ord that shall give me rest. 
Open the door of thy heart, 

And open thy chamber door, 
And my kisses shall teach thy lips 
The love that shall fade no more 
Till the sun grotvs cold, 
And the stars are old, 
And the leaves of the Judgment 
Book unfold! 



604 



STODDARD. 

THE TWO BIllUES. 

I SAW two maids at the kirk, 

And both were fair and sweel 
One was in her bridal robe, 

One ill her winding-sheet. 
The choristers sang the hymn, 

The sacred rites were read— 
And one for life to Life, 

And one to Death was wed 1 
They went to their bridal beds 

In loveliness and bloom : 
One in a merry castle, 

One in a solemn tomb. 
One to the world of sleep, 

Lock'd in the arms of Low ; 
And one in the arms of Death 

Pass'd to the heavens above. 
One to the morrow woke, 

In a Avorld of sin and pain ; 
LJiit the other was happier far. 

And never woke again. 



G05 




BUTLEE. 



NOTHING TO WEAR. 

AN EPISODE OF CITY LIFE. 

Miss Flora M'Flimsey, of Madison Square, 
Has made three separate journeys to Paris. 

And her father assures me, each time she Avas there, 
Tliat she and her friend Mrs. Harris, 

GOG 



BUTLER. 

(Not the lady whose name is so famous m history, 

But phiiii Mrs. H., without romance or mystery,) 

Spent six consecutive weeks without stopping, 

In one continuous round of shopping ; 

Shopping alone, and shopping together, 

At all hours of the day, and in all sorts of weather ; 

For all manner of things that a Avoman can put 

On the crown of her head or the sole of her foot, 

Or wrap round her shoulders, or fit round her waist, 

Or that can be sewed on, or pinned on, or laced. 

Or tied on with a string, or stitched on with a bo^A-, 

In front or behind, above or below : 

For bonnets, mantillas, capes, collars, and shawls; 

Dresses for breakfasts, and dinners, and balls ; 

Dresses to sit in, and stand in, and walk in ; 

Dresses to dance in, and flirt in, and talk in ; 

Dresses in Avhich to do nothing at all ; 

Dresses for winter, spring, summer, and fall ; 

All of them different in colour and pattern, — 

Silk, muslin, and lace, crape, velvet, and satin. 

Brocade, and broadcloth, and other material, 

Quite as expensiAe and much more ethereal ; 

In short, for all things that could ever be thought of, 

Or milliner, modiste, or ti^adesman be bought of, 

From ten-thousand-franc robes to twenty-sous frills ; 
In all quarters of Paris, and to every store, 
While M'Flimsey in \-ain stormed, scolded, and swore. 

They footed the streets, and he footed the bills. 



The last trip, their goods shipped by the steamer Arago 
Formed, M'Flimsey declares, the bulk of her cargo, 
Not to mention a quantity kept from the rest, 
Sufficient to fill the largest-sized chest, 
Which did not appear on the ship's manifest, 
But for AA'hich the ladies themselves manifested 
Such particular interest, that they invested 

007 



NOTHING TO WEAR. 

Their own proper persons in layers and rows 
Of muslins, embroideries, worked under-clothes, 
Gloves, handkerchiefs, scarfs, and such trifles as those ; 
Then, wrapped in great shawls, like Circassian beauties. 
Gave good-b)j to the ship, and go-hy to the duties. 
Her relations at hotoe all marvelled no doubt, 
Miss Flora had grown so enormously stout 

For an actual belle and a possible bride ; 
But the miracle ceased when she turned inside out, 

And the truth came to light, and the dry goods beside. 
Which, in spite of Collector and Custom-house sentry, 
Had entered the port without any entry. 

And yet, though scarce three months have passed since the day 
This merchandise went, on twelve carts, up Broadway. 
This same Miss M'Flimsey, of Madison Square, 
The last time we met, was in utter despair. 
Because she had nothing whatever to wear! 

Nothing to weak ! Now, as this is a true ditty, 
I do not assert — this, you know, is between us — 

That she's in a state of absolute nudity. 

Like Powers' Greek Slave, or the Medici Venus ; 

But I do mean to say, I have heard her declare, 
When, at the same moment, she had on a dress 
Which cost five hundred dollars, and not a cent less, 
And jewelry worth ten times more, I should guess, 

That she had not a thing in the wide world to wear! 

I should mention just here, that out of Miss Floi-a's 
Two hundred and fifty or sixty adorers, 
I had just been selected as he who should throw all 
The rest in the shade, by the gracious bestowal 
On myself, after twenty or thirty rejections. 
Of those fossil remains which she called her "affections." 
And that rather decayed, but Avell-known work of art. 
Which Miss Flora persisted in styling "her heart." 

608 



BUTLER. 

So we were engaged. Oiu' troth had been plighted, 

Not by moonbeam or starbeam, by fountam or grove. 

But m a front parlour, most brilliantly lighted, 

Beneath the gas-fixtui'es we whispered our love. 

Without any romance, or raptures, or sighs, 

Without any tears in Miss Flora's blue eyes, 

Or blushes, or transports, or such silly actions, 

It was one of the quietest business transactions, 

With a very small sprinkling of sentiment, if any, 

And a very large diamond imported by Tiifany. 

On her virginal lips while I j^rinted a kiss. 

She exclaimed, as a sort of parenthesis, 

And by way of putting me quite at my ease, 

"You know, I'm to polka as much as I please. 

And flirt when I like — now stop, don't you speak — 

And you must not come here more than twice in the week, 

Or talk to me either at party or ball, 

But always be ready to come when I call ; 

So don't prose to me about duty and stuft'. 

If we don't break this off, there will be time enough 

For that sort of thing ; but the bargain must be 

That, as long as I choose, I am perfectly free. 

For this is a sort of engagement, you see, 

Which is binding on you but not binding on me." 

Well, having thus Avooed Miss M'Flimsey and gained her. 

With the silks, crinolines, and hoops that contained her, 

I had, as I thought, a contingent remainder 

At least in the property, and the best right 

To appear as its escort by day and by night ; 

And it being the week of the Stuckup's grand ball — 

Their cards had been out a fortnight or so. 

And set all the Avenue on the tip- toe — 
I considei-ed it only my duty to call. 

And see if Miss Flora intended to go. 
I found her — as ladies are apt to be found. 
When the time intervening between the first sound 

609 o o 



NOTHING TO WEAR. 

Of the bell and the visitor's entry is shorter 

Than usual — I found ; I won't say — I caught her — 

Intent on the pier-glass, undoubtedly meaning 

To see if perhaps it didn't need cleaning. 

She turned as I entered — "Why, Harry, you sinner, 

I thought that you went to the Flashers' to dinner !" 

"So I did," I replied, "but the dinner is swallowed. 

And digested, I trust, for 'tis now nine and more. 
So being relieved from that duty, I followed 

Inclination, which led me, you see, to your door. 
And now will your ladyship so condescend 
As just to inform me if you intend 
Your beauty, and graces, and presence to lend, 
(All which, when I own, I hope no one Avill borrow) 
To the Stuckup's, whose party, you know, is to-morrow?" 

The fair Flora looked up with a pitiful air. 
And answered quite promptly, "Why Harry, mo)i cher, 
I should like above all things to go with you there ; 
But really and truly — I've nothing to wear." 

" Nothing to wear ! go just as you are ; 

Wear the dress you have on, and you'll be by far, 

I engage, the most bright and particular star 

On the Stuckup horizon" — I stopped, for her eye, 
Notwithstanding this delicate onset of flattery. 
Opened on me at once a most terrible battery 

Of scorn and amazement. She made no reply, 
But gave a slight turn to the end of her nose 

(That pure Grecian feature), as much as to say, 
'• How absurd that any sane man should suppose 
That a lady would go to a ball in the clothes. 

No matter how fine, that she wears every day!" 

So I ventured again — "Wear your crimson brocade," 
(Second turn up of nose) — "That's too dark by a shade." 

610 



BUTLER. 

"Your blue silk" — "That's too heavy;" "Your pink" — "That's too light. 

"Wear tulle over satin" — "I can't endure white." 

" Your rose-coloured, then, the best of the batch" — 

" I haven't a thread of point lace to match." 

"Your brown vioii' witique'' — "Yes, and look like a Quaker;" 

"The pearl-coloured" — "I would, but that plaguy dress-maker 

Has had it a week" — " Then that exquisite lilac. 

In which you would melt the heart of a Shylock." 

(Here the nose took again the same elevation) 

" I wouldn't Avear that for the whole of creation." 

"Why not? It's my fancy, there's nothing could strike it 
As more comme il faut — " " Yes, but dear me, that lean 

Sophronia Stuckup has got one just like it, 
And I won't appear dressed like a chit of sixteen." 
" Then that splendid purple, that sweet Mazarine ; 
That superb j^oint cVaiyuille, that imperial green, 
That zephyr-like tarleton, that rich grenadine''' — 
"Not one of all which is fit to be seen," 
Said the lady, becoming excited and flushed. 
"Then wear," I exclaimed, in a tone which quite crushed 

Opposition, " that gorgeous toilette which you sported 
In Paris last spring, at the grand presentation, 
When you quite turned the head of the head of the nation ; 

And by all the grand court were so very much courted." 

The end of the nose was portentously tipped up, 
And both the bright eyes shot forth indignation. 
As she burst upon me Avith the fierce exclamation, 
" I have worn it three times at the least calculation. 

And that and the most of my dresses are ripped up!" 
Here / ripped out something, perhaps rather rash, 

Quite innocent, though ; but, to use an expression 
More striking than classic, it " settled my hash," 

And proved very soon the last act of our session. 
"Fiddlesticks, is it, Sir? I wonder the ceiling 
Doesn'tfall down and crush you — oh, you men have no feeling, 
You selfish, unnatural, illiberal creatures, 
Wlio set yourselves up as patterns and preachers. 

Gil 



NOTHING TO WEAR. 

Your silly pretence — why, Avhat a mere guess it is ! 
Pray, what do you know of a woman's necessities? 
I have told you and slioAra you I've nothing to wear, 
And it's perfectly plain you not onl}' don't care, 
But you do not believe me" (here the nose went still higher). 
" I suppose if you dared you would call me a liar. 
Our engagement is ended, Sir — yes, on the spot ; 
You're a brute, and a monster, and — I don't know what." 
I mildly suggested the words — Hottentot, 
Pickpocket, and cannibal, Tartar, and thief. 
As gentle expletives which might give relief; 
But this only proved as spark to the powder, 
And the storm I had raised came foster and louder. 
It blew and it rained, thmidei-ed, lightened, and hailed 
' Interjections, verbs, pronouns, till language quite failed 
To express the abusive, and then its arrears 
Were brought up all at once by a torrent of tears, 
And my last faint, despairing attempt at an obs- 
Ervation was lost in a tempest of sobs. 

"Well, I felt for the lad}-, and felt for my hat, too, 
Improvised on the crown of the latter a tattoo, 
In lieu of expressing the feelings wliich lay 
Quite too deep for Avords, as "Wordsworth would say; 
Then, without going through the form of a bow. 
Found myself in the entry — I hardly knew how — 
On door-step and sidewalk, past lamp-post and square, 
At home and up stairs, in my own easy chair ; 

Poked my feet into slippers, my lire into blaze, 
And said to myself, as I lit my cigar. 
Supposing a man had the wealth of the Czar 

Of the Russias to boot, for the rest of his days, 
On the Avhole, do you think he would have much to spare 
If he mai-ried a woman Avith nothing to wear? 

Since that night, taking pains that it should not be bruited 
Abroad in society, I've instituted 
A course of inquiry, extensive and thorough, 

G12 



BUTLEE. 

On this vital subject, and find, to my horror, 

That the fair Flora's case is by no means surprising, 

But that there exists the greatest distress 
In our female community, solely arising 

From this unsupplied destitution of dress, 
Wliose unfortunate victims arc filling the air 
With the pitiful wail of "Nothing to wear." 
Researches in some of the "Upper Ten" districts 
Kcveal the most painful and startling statistics. 
Of which let me mention only a few : 
In one single house, on the Fifth Avenue, 
Three young ladies were found, all V^elow twenty-two, 
"Who have been three whole weeks without any thing new 
In the way of flounced silks, and thus left in the lurch 
Are unable to go to ball, concert, or church. 
In another large mansion near the same place 
Was found a deplorable, heart-rending case 
Of entire destitution of Brussels point lace. 
In a neighbouring block there was found, in three calls, 
Total want, long continued, of camels' -hair shawls; 
And a suffering family, whose case exhibits 
The most pressing need of real ermine tippets ; 
One deserving young lady almost unal>le 
To survive for the want of a new Russian sable ; 
Another confined to the house, when it's Avindier 
Than usual, because her shawl isn't India. 
Still another, whose tortures have been most terrific 
Ever since the sad loss of the steamer Pacific, 
In which were ingulfed, not friend or relation, 
(For wliose fate she perhaps might have found consolation, 
Or borne it, at least, with serene resignation,) 
But the choicest assortment of French sleeves and collars 
Ever sent out from Paris, wortli thousands of dollars. 
And all as to style most rechcrclie and rare. 
The Avant of which leaves her with notliing to wear, 
And renders her life so drear and dyspeptic 
That she's quite a recluse, and almost a sceptic, 

G13 



NOTHING TO WEAR. 

For she toucliingly says that this sort of grief 

Cannot find in Religion the slightest relief, 

And Philosophy has not a maxim to spare 

For the victims of such overwhelming despair. 

But the saddest by far of all these sad features 

Is the cruelty practised upon the poor creatures 

By husbands and fathers, real Bluebeards and Timons, 

Who resist the most touching appeals made for diamonds 

By their wives and their daughters, and leave them for days 

Unsupplied with new jewelry, flms, or bouquets, 

Even laugh at their miseries Avhenever they have a chance, 

And deride their demands as useless extravagance ; 

One case of a bride was brought to my view. 

Too sad for belief, but, alas ! 'twas too true. 

Whose husband refused, as savage as Charon, 

To permit her to take more than ten trunks to Sharon. 

The consequence Avas, that when she got there, 

At the end of three weeks she had nothing to wear. 

And when she proposed to finish the season 

At Newport, the monster refused out and out, 

For his infamous conduct alleging no reason, 

Except that the waters were good for his gout ; 

Such treatment as this w^as too shocking, of course. 

And proceedings are now going on for divorce. 

But why harrow the feelings by lifting the curtain 
From these scenes of Avoe? Enough, it is certain, 
Has here been disclosed to stir up the pity 
Of every benevolent heart in the city. 
And spur up Humanity into a canter 
To rush and relieve these sad cases instanter. 
Won't somebody, moved by this touching description, 
Come forward to-morrow and head a subscription? 
Won't some kind philanthropist, seeing that aid is 
So needed at once by these indigent ladies. 
Take charge of the matter ? or won't Peter Coopek 
The corner-stone lay of some splendid super- 

GH 



BUTLER. 

Structure, like that which to-day links his name 

In the Union unending of honour and fame ; 

And found a new charity just for the care 

Of these unhappy women with nothing to Avear, 

Which, in view of the cash which w^ould daily be claimed, 

The Laying-out Hospital well might be named? 

Won't Stewart, or some of our dry-goods importers. 

Take a contract for clothing our wives and our daughters? 

Or, to furnish the cash to supply these distresses, 

And life's pathway strew with shawls, collars, and dresses, 

Ei'e the want of them makes it much rougher and thornier, 

Won't some one discover a new California ? 

Oh ladies, dear ladies, the next sunny day 
Please trundle your hoops just out of Broadway, 
From its whirl and its bustle, its fashion and pride, 
And the temples of Trade which tower on each side. 
To the alleys and lanes, where Misfortune and Guilt 
Their children have gathered, their city have built; 
Where Hunger and Vice, like twin beasts of prey, 

Have hunted their victims to gloom and despair ; 
Raise the rich, dainty dress, and the fine broidered skirt. 
Pick your delicate way through the dampness and dirt. 

Grope through the dark dens, climb the rickety stair 
To the garret, where wretches, the young and the old. 
Half-starved and half-naked, lie crouched from the cold. 
See those skeleton limbs, those frost-bitten feet. 
All bleeding and bruised by the stones of the street; 
Hear the sharp cry of childhood, the deep groans that swell 

From the poor dying creature who writhes on the floor, 
Hear the curses that sound like the echoes of Hell, 

As you sicken and shudder and fly from the door; 
Then home to your wardrobes, and say, if you dare — 
Spoiled children of Fashion — you've nothing to wear! 

And oh, if ])erchance there should be a sphere. 
Where all is made right which so puzzles us here, 

015 



NOTHING TO WEAK. 

Wliero the glare, and the glitter, and tinsel of Time 
Fade and die in the light of that region sublime, 
Where the soul, disenchanted of flesh and of sense, 
Unscreened by its trappings, and shows, and pretence, 
Must be clothed for the life and the service above, 
With purity, truth, faith, meekness, and love ; 
Oh, daughters of Earth ! foolish virgins, beware ! 
Lest ill that upper realm you have nothing to wear! 







616 



